The Boy From Cuba
by cherryblossomriot
Summary: After Lance is captured by a Galran warlord, he has to face the aftermath of the physical torture and mental damage that is inflicted on him. Will his friends ever save him? And if they do, will he ever heal?
1. Despair

To die would be release. To close his eyes for the last time, to feel his heart stop, to cease breathing. To leave the agony, misery, and suffering of the universe behind and just float into the eternal expanse of stars forever. Stars. How he missed stars. He couldn't remember the last time he saw them. Or the last time he'd seen anything but this dark cell and his tormentors. The thought sent a pang of sorrow through his body, and if he hadn't already given up, he would have felt the sharp sting of tears in his eyes. When he was a boy, growing up on the Cuban coast, he used to sit for hours on the beach and watch as the sun set over the aquamarine waters of the ocean. Now, if he closed his eyes, he could still feel the white sand against his toes and feel the breeze rustling his hair. He could still feel the exhaustion that settled over his entire body and deep into his bones after swimming away the whole day. And he still remembered where his mind wandered when he sat there, watching the sky celebrate yet another day of beauty and joy. It wandered to Space, it dwelled on girls, it swirled around his family, it fumed about school, but most often it contemplated. At the time, he'd never admit it to anyone, but it contemplated everything. Life, relationships, philosophies, and death. He would imagine his dying moments, lying on a bed beside the very same ocean, hair the color of the very same shore, and eyes as old as the very same sun. He pictured his family there, sisters, brothers, maybe a couple of kids, and, of course, a wife whose beauty defied age. He never even paused to think that his death would happen any other way. He certainly never thought he'd die alone in a gloomy cell in a Galran warship flying through a part of space that was millions of millions of light years from that beach. From that sun. From his family. With mild and detached amusement, the boy from Cuba noticed that he, in fact, did still have some ability to cry. His tears fell from shattered eyes, rolled down a bruised face, and met the blood stained floor with a bitter kiss. Lance McClain, the Red Paladin of Voltron, the Sharpshooter, the goofy one, the dumb one, or whatever people called him, was unable to stop the sobs as they racked his body, was unable to stop himself from showing weakness. He was incapable of doing anything other than sitting in agony, and wishing that his captors would just end his life.


	2. A Harsh Awakening

A sharp kick in the ribs was definitely an effective method of waking someone. Though it was undesirable to the receiver, it did jolt their brain into consciousness, which is helpful in an interrogation. Of course, Lance would have preferred that they simply tapped him on the shoulder, maybe played some soothing music, and let the scent of pancakes or bacon waft through his cell. Alas, a kick in the side was what he got. And probably a broken rib too, with the way he heard a crack and how quickly searing pain shot through him.

"Wake up, Paladin," a gruff voice rasped.

That was useless, seeing how Lance was already fully awake.

"If you still want Voltron's location, I've already told you, I don't know," Lance groaned, clutching his side and peering up at his torturer. The Galran held the basic characteristics of any Galran, but this one was much uglier than any other that Lance had ever seen, and Lance had seen a lot of ugly Galrans. The guy that loomed over him only had one ear, one eye, and teeth as sharp as razors. Scars criss-crossed his face and head, and his armor made the guy look even bigger than he actually was. In the amount of time that Lance had been captured, it was this Galran, and this Galran alone, that had inflicted the most pain on him. Sure, others interrogated him, punched him, and messed with his thoughts, but this was the one that broke his bones. And his mind.

"Get up," the Galran ordered, not caring that Lance could barely breathe at the moment. While the old Lance, the one that had been dragged into this cell punching and fighting, would have bit back a sharp retort, this Lance, the one who had suffered far too many beatings and tricks, could only push himself to his knees. Wheezing, Lance placed one hand on the wall in order to support himself, and clutched the other to his injured side. After struggling for a few minutes of heavy sweating and nausea, Lance somehow managed to get to his feet. The repulsive Galran grunted, and turned around. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Lance saw the door of his cell open as his tormenter walked out. "Follow me, and don't try anything. It won't end well for you."

 _I couldn't do anything even if I wanted to,_ Lance reflected bitterly, gritting his teeth and staggering to the door. When he made it out of his cell, he thought he'd feel some sense of relief or joy, but in the end, he still knew he was a prisoner. And the two guards that instantly flanked his sides were reminders of that. "Where are we going, Scarface?" Lance asked, still clinging to the unoriginal but accurate nickname he'd given the Galran when he'd first arrived.

As expected, his captor said nothing. He merely walked at a pace that Lance could not maintain. After walking barely twenty paces, Lance's knees gave up on him, and he hit the ground with a hard crunch. Growling, his captor ordered a nearby soldier to pick him up, and without a tick more of loitering, continued on his journey. As the soldier handled him roughly and without care to his injuries, Lance wished that he'd been fed something earlier, so that he could projectile vomit it all over this idiot guard.

The trip through the ship passed in blurs of black and purples, and Lance couldn't tell if the guard was just walking at a high speed or if he was about to pass out. Probably the latter.

When Lance's vision returned to him, he managed to gather his bearings. They were, obviously, in one of the ship's docking bays, though there was only one ship in the bay. And the sight of that ship sent a thrill through him. "Red!"

For a brief second, Lance felt hope shoot into his heart. Maybe they'd let him leave! But as quickly as that hope appeared, Lance himself crushed it. There was no way in any reality that he would be released so randomly. The fact that they were reuniting Lance with his beloved Lion meant only one thing. They wanted to use him to get to Voltron.

The hideous Galran faced Lance suddenly and announced in harsh tones, "None of my men can activate your ship. I order you to activate it. Now."

Blunt, but Lance had never pictured the guy to be subtle in any way.

"And if I don't?" Lance asked without emotion. For although Lance knew what he was already going to do, he felt no conviction in it. No guilt. No horror. No fury. Not even sorrow. Only hollow pain.

"Then I will do more to you than I ever have before," his tormentor threatened darkly.

Lance knew he only had one option. He just hoped that somehow, after he died at this Galran's hands, his friends would someday find the Red Lion and return to Earth. Maybe tell his parents that he helped them save the Universe. Maybe they'd be proud of him. Or maybe they'd be ashamed that he gave in to his enemies. Closing his eyes, Lance tried to connect to his Lion. He stretched out his consciousness, pleading, begging, for the Lion to respond to him. _Please, Red. I'm so tired. Please. Please._

The Red Lion of Voltron remained coldly distant.

 _C'mon, Red! It's me, Lance! Just answer me!_

Nothing.

 _Please. I need you to do this._

Not even a flicker of acknowledgement. The Red Lion did not seem to care about Lance. And that shattered Lance's already broken heart.

"She won't answer me," Lance gulped, opening his eyes to a glowering Scarface.

"I thought you'd resist," Scarface snarled, and raised his hand. With a flick of his fingers, Scarface gestured to the guard holding Lance, who promptly dropped Lance in a heap. A shriek ripped out of Lance's mouth and through the room as the pain overwhelmed him. Clawing at his side, Lance couldn't breathe. He couldn't focus, couldn't even think. All he wanted was for the pain to be over. To be on a beach in Cuba. To be dead.

A harsh strike to his other side sent Lance into an abyss of agony. Now he was certain that he had broken ribs on both sides of his body, and he could do nothing but scream. More blows hit his fragile, beaten body, and the last thing Lance was aware of before darkness engulfed him was how no one would help him, not even his trusted Lion.


	3. A New Form of Torture

**A/N**

 **Hey there! I present to you chapter three! Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews, favorites, and follows! They've really encouraged me, and I can't wait to share the rest of this story with you all!** **This story starts right around the beginning of season 7, while they're traveling back to Earth, in case you get confused.**

 **Thank you so much!**

* * *

Scarface still expected him to activate his Lion. Of course, Lance had already told him that the connection was a two way transaction, and the Red Lion wasn't cooperating. Not that Lance blamed her. If Lance was an elite Altean piece of almost indestructible technology, he wouldn't work with Scarface either. However, Lance was Lance. Broken, useless Lance. The one everyone mocked. The one who sacrificed himself for everyone else. The one who died for his friends. But was he really that Lance anymore? Could he be? After all of this, could Lance go back to Voltron and jump right back into his role? Could he still crack jokes and laugh like nothing had ever happened? All Lance cracked at the moment was bones. Slumped against his cell wall, Lance tried to block out the memory of the Galra operating on him. They were healing him, and though they had numbed everything, they left him awake. Maybe as another form of torture, maybe as a warning. Either way, Lance couldn't get the images out of his head. Everytime he closed his eyes, they appeared without bidding, and everytime he opened them, he was reminded that he was still in Hell. Shifting uneasily, he lifted the tattered remains of the simple shirt they had given him. When they captured Lance, they'd stripped him of his armor and he'd woken in a plain shirt and pants, both the dullest shade of gray. They'd stolen the colors that he wore like they'd stolen his personality. Or maybe, in the end, he'd given it to them. For so long, Lance had fought. Hard. The only words he'd spoken were insults and jibes, his meaning filled with arrogance and his tone coated in venom. But slowly, as they ripped holes in his walls, he'd given in. He practically allowed them to stroll right in and steal his resolve. He should fight back. And he would. If he could stand. Sighing, Lance ran his fingers across the jagged, appalling scars that ran along his sides. They would always be there, always be a reminder. And those weren't all the scars he'd received. Who even knew how many wounds had been inflicted on him in the amount of time that he'd been there? Certainly not Lance. He didn't even know how long he'd been in captivity. That was another thing that unnerved him. It could have been months. Or just days. He didn't know how long he slept, and what little food they did give him arrived sporadically. Running a shaky hand through his greasy, blood coated hair, Lance tried to think of something better. Something much more pleasant. While he often spent his periods of isolation dreaming about his family and Cuba, this time, Lance's mind moved to his friends and Voltron. Had they continued in their quest to Earth without him? Probably not. They needed the Red Lion, even if they didn't need him. That alone gave him some hope. His thoughts moved fluidly, from Hunk's bright smile and warm embrace, to Pidge's laughter, and to Shiro's protectiveness. He thought fondly of Coran's ever present energy and encouragement, and Allura's glittering eyes and deep compassion. How he missed them. He even missed Mullet Boy, Keith, who had become more of a friend to him than he had ever thought possible. A smile curved on his lips as he thought of the time they'd been stuck in that interdimensional game show hosted by Bob, some supposed cosmic being. When asked which Paladin each of them would choose to go back to Voltron, Lance had chosen Keith. After all, now that Shiro couldn't lead them, Keith had started to really step into his responsibilities. And who had Keith picked? Lance.

" _I just don't want to be stuck for all eternity with Lance."_

At the time, that comment stung. But now, it actually made Lance laugh. Maybe he really had lost his mind. And even though his core burned from the feeling, it made Lance feel so much better. The good memories that he cherished with his friends flooded his brain all at once, and before long, Lance's spirits lifted tremendously. Thinking of riding on a hovering cow away from a space mall cop, playing video games with Pidge, holding Allura, sitting for hours with his team as they played Monsters and Mana, and the endless hours of laughter brought him to a much better place. A place where he could be Lance McClain, if only for a moment. Suddenly, his cell door opened, and a Galran guard popped inside. Utterly confused, Lance watched in shock as the guard tore off its helmet to reveal the white hair and multi-colored eyes of Allura. She was in Galran form, but it was definitely her. Blinking, Lance wondered if his recollections and fatigue had induced a hallucination.

"Allura?" His voice rasped, eyes wide.

"Lance! I'm so glad we found you! Come on, we don't have long," Allura urged, offering him her hand.

"Are you real?" He asked in disbelief as she pulled him to his feet.

"If I wasn't real, do you think I'd be able to touch you?" She pointed out, pulling him out of the cell.

"Are the others here?" He wondered as she dragged him down the corridors. He was panting, and hardly able to keep up with her, but he'd never been more eager to run.

"Of course. They're waiting in their Lions and are running a distraction. We need to hurry before we're caught," She huffed, a strand of white hair falling into her face. In all his life, Lance had never been happier to hear her accented voice.

"Red is in a bay somewhere around here," Lance told her as they rounded a corner.

"I know, Pidge has the schematics."

"Pidge is on coms with you? I suppose they all are," Lance shook his head at his stupidity. Of course they were all on coms. This was a mission after all.

"Almost there," Allura informed after they ran through several more halls. No one had intercepted them, which was a relief and a source of anxiety. Missions never flowed so easily. Especially rescue missions. Lance had run plenty of those to know. Usually, if no one intercepted them, soldiers with large guns were ready to ambush them as soon as they entered the bay. However, when they did reach the bay, no one stopped them. They ran right up to Red and all they had to do was activate her, run inside, shoot down the doors and fly to freedom. The thought led Lance to being hasty, and much too sloppy.

"C'mon Red, it's me, let's go!" Lance called, touching her paw. Nothing happened.

"C'mon, I need you to let us in!" Lance yelled louder, and more desperate.

After two minutes of trying to connect with the Lion, Allura shifted nervously and hissed, "Hurry Lance! We don't have much more time left!"

"I'm trying!" Lance shouted, slamming his hands against the metal of the Lion. Presently, a door to the docking bay opened to reveal a figure clad in red shooting at Galran guards. His back was to Lance, but he knew exactly who it was. As lasers shot past the fighter, he slammed his hand on the button to trigger the door, and after it sealed, shot the button for good measure.

"Lance, come on, we need to go!" Keith shouted as he raced up to them, and pulling off his helmet.

"I thought Allura said everyone else was in their Lions," Lance frowned.

"Yeah, everyone but me, Allura and I were the best to infiltrate. Now let's go," Keith stated brusquely, shoving past Lance and waiting for the Red Lion to lower her head.

"What happened to your scar?" Lance froze, a gnawing fear rising in his brain.

"Scar?" Keith turned to face him, dark eyes confused.

"Yeah, the scar you got from fighting Shiro's clone? The one that's supposed to be right on your face," Lance narrowed his eyes, certain now that something was wrong.

"It healed," Keith snapped in irritation.

"Healed? It just magically healed?" Lance blanched incredulously.

"Look, we don't have time for this," Keith snarled impatiently, walking back to Lance and getting a little too close.

"You act like Keith, and you look like Keith, but you're not Keith," Lance decided, with fury and despair raging within him. If this wasn't Keith, then the girl standing next to him was not Allura, and that meant that he wasn't leaving.

"Lance-"

"This isn't real," the boy from Cuba decided, closing his eyes. Just as he felt Keith's hands grab the collar of his shirt, everything seemed to melt away.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, he was still lying on the operation table, straps digging into his skin and wires attached to his head. Scarface stood over him, a scowl on his lips.

"You won't hold up much longer," he hissed, just before waves of electricity jolted through Lance's body.


	4. An Attempt At Normality

Lance woke with a start. Something was wrong. Something had changed. Squinting and scrunching his eyebrows, he tried to discern the shift in his surroundings. He was still in the operating room, still restrained against the same bed. Nothing new there. Lance's eyes flicked from side to side, his neck straining as he tried to figure out what was different. In its muddled and starved state, Lance's brain couldn't figure out why his subconscious had woken him. Frowning, Lance focused on the one thing he could discern. He was alone. Every other time he'd woken, at least two faceless Galran had stood above him, their goggles reflecting the terror in his eyes. Lance didn't know how long he'd been strapped down, enduring the same cycle of electrocution and unconsciousness, but he didn't think he would last much longer. And that thought brought him hope. Though Lance had just noted the fact that he had no company, he still braced himself for the next wave of shocks. When none came, he began to worry. What were they planning to do to him next? His imagination ran rampant, effectively terrorizing him more than any of the Galra could. The unknown was ultimately much worse than the agony with which he was already acquainted. Envisioning his next torture in gruesome detail, Lance shuddered. Anxiety washed over him, and the stuffy silence of the empty operating room suffocated him. He needed someone to be with him, he was wretched when alone. He wanted his friends, he yearned for his family. But the crushing reality of his situation offered no such comfort.

Only loneliness.

And fear.

* * *

Lance waited.

And waited.

His sanity flirted with chaos, and his thoughts danced with destruction. Had the Galra completely forgotten about him? He was certain that he'd been there for days, which frustrated and confused Lance immensely. At one point, his anxiousness had led him to thrashing against his restraints in panic for several hard minutes, but his lack of nourishment prevented him from continuing his convulsions. As beads of sweat rolled down Lance's forehead, he noticed with a start just how high the temperature had risen. Or maybe that was just him. At this point, Lance didn't trust any of his senses. No, the hallucinations had properly robbed him of all faith in reality. With a body raw and fatigued, and a paranoid mind on the verge of psychosis, Lance didn't really have the energy to care about the slight discomfort of the temperature. At least, that's what he originally thought. After several minutes, the degrees within the operating room continued to climb, until Lance's heart raced at an unnatural speed and his head contracted a nasty migraine. Lance had experienced heat stroke once before, after spending days in the Cuban sun, but he'd quickly healed from his symptoms once his mom had forced him to hydrate. This time, however, there was no water. And, unfortunately, Lance's mouth was as dry as Keith's sense of humor. Oh, how Lance craved a waterfall of the precious liquid. Before he could restrain himself, Lance began to imagine dozens of forms of water, from enormous bodies of water, to rain, then to puddles. He thought of the Frozen Planet, the very one whose icy waters he and Hunk had accidentally crashed into. An entire planet of freezing cold water. Now that was a hallucination in which he'd like to find himself. But before he could continue in his delirious and desperate desires, Lance's body dragged him back to his present pain. Nausea coiled through his body, and Lance became aware of the acute fear that he'd vomit all over himself. Struggling against the bile that rose in his throat, Lance angled his head to the side out of instinct. Just as clear liquid fell out of his lips and his shoulders wretched, someone finally came into the room. Which would have given a big dent to Lance's pride, if he'd had any left. As coughs racked Lance's body, Scarface's revolting face came into view. Smirking at Lance's pitifulness, Scarface announced in a guttural voice, "You have a choice, Paladin. Activate your Lion or continue to suffer."

Despite the exhaustion in his bones, Lance decided to employ an old tactic, just to see if he could try to be himself again.

"The Red Lion just really likes to play hard to get, man. I can't do much about that."

Lance instantly regretted his attempt as Scarface pressed a nearby screen and triggered a surge of harrowing electric shocks. Lance couldn't even hear his own screams over the rash of agony that seized his body. When the sensation finally subsided, Scarface addressed him once more.

"If you will not activate the Lion, then tell us where the rest of the Resistance is."

He was repeating himself. In Lance's very first torture sessions, Scarface had asked all sorts of questions about Voltron and the Coalition. Where had Voltron been for two years? What happened to Lotor? Where were the Blade of Marmora? Lance had ended up answering all his questions, but apparently, the Galran didn't even believe the truth.

"I don't know," Lance told him.

Another phase of lightning rippling over his veins.

"What is the frequency that the Resistance uses to communicate?" He demanded, a snarl twisting his disfigured lips.

This one, Lance thought he should know. However, whenever Pidge and Hunk commented on frequencies and technical things, Lance always found himself completely lost. One of the many reasons he'd been labeled "The Dumb One".

"I don't know, 'Resistance R Us'?" Lance guessed, knowing that frequencies usually involved numbers, but not really having enough insight to come up with a random strand of digits.

More electricity.

"I thought you'd lost most of your idiotic rambling after I cut you open," Scarface noted, the expression on his face easily conveying that he didn't appreciate Lance's attempts at humor.

"Me too," Lance muttered, before shuddering vehemently at the flood of memories that deluged his mind.

Scarface regarded him wickedly, before turning the strength of the voltage to the highest level.

"You will die a thousand times before I decide to kill you," He threatened, just before Lance's shrieks drowned out the crackling of the volts across his human skin.


	5. A Lead

**A/N**

 **Hiya! I know this is relatively short, but I will be updating soon. I decided to give my poor boy a break and focus on my other boy. I hope you enjoy it!**

 **You guys are amazing! Thank you for reading my humble little fanfic!**

* * *

Keith was angry. That in itself was not unusual, but at the moment, it was not helping anything. He'd already been frustrated by the fact that it had been _a month_ and they had still not found any trace of Lance. His irritation climbed with each black market, resistance base, and random mall kiosk that Coran had dragged him to, both hoping to find answers. When they received none, time after time, Keith had to rein in his fury. He was the leader after all, he needed to set a strong example. But all of his resolve crumbled when this snarky little upstart of a vendor, who sold "Rare Artifacts" that Keith had seen a million times in each market they'd been to, started to spout obvious garbage about Lance being dead. Grabbing the little runt by the stupid collars of his strange tailored suit, Keith slammed the vendor against a nearby wall. "Listen here, you slick little runt, you say one more word about the Red Paladin of Voltron being dead and I'll make sure you don't say anything else ever again," Keith snapped, fury roaring through his veins.

The squat green vendor started sputtering in his native language, and before Keith could do anything more, Coran set a hand on his shoulder.

"That's not going to help our situation, Keith," His crisp, accented voice advised.

Without moving his eyes to Coran, Keith glared and let go of the vendor. After brushing himself off in distaste, the vendor exclaimed, "Look, all that I've heard is that the Red Paladin of Voltron is-" he glanced at Keith quickly "-indisposed."

"Do you have an idea of where he might have last been? Or who might have captured him?" Coran wondered, face revealing none of his desperation.

"I might have heard a name, but I don't think I remember it very well," The sleazy con artist tapped his chin, a greedy glint in his sickly yellow eyes. Keith growled darkly, disgusted that the vendor would try to make money from this. "Do you want me to jog your memory?" Keith snapped, stepping toward the gremlin with every intention to cause harm.

The vendor shrank away, and Coran placed his hand on Keith's arm. Casting Keith a stern look and turning back to the vendor, Coran managed to bribe the guy with an insane amount of money. Keith did not pay much attention to their transaction, since his own boiling rage drowned out most of his surroundings. He couldn't believe that they were _paying_ this runt when Keith could have practically grabbed the information in a couple precise movements. But, in the end, if the information brought them closer to Lance's location, then he really didn't care how they got it. "I don't know much, but I heard Raliore Destra has been bragging about how he'd personally captured a Paladin of Voltron," The vendor spilled, right after Keith tuned back into his surroundings. "Raliore Destra? Who's he?" Keith demanded impatiently, eager to find this Destra guy and deck him.

"A Lieutenant of the Galran Empire. Or what's left of it," the vendor replied, warily watching Keith.

"And where can we find this Raliore Destra?" Coran wondered, offering the vendor several more coins. Accepting the currency with an obvious amount of avarice, the vendor stretched the corners of his mouth into an eerie smile, "He likes to frequent the Kace District."

"That's it?!" Keith snapped, "Is there a _specific_ location in the Kace District that he might be?"

The vendor observed Keith cautiously, most likely calculating how much more money he could milk from the two of them, and if the risk of facing Keith's wrath was worth it. The vicious scar running along Keith's cheek was the deciding factor. "He might be hanging around at the Nebula Nightclub, but I don't know specifics."

That was all Keith needed to hear. Without another word, he pivoted on his feet and started back in the direction they'd come, purpose filling his gait. He stalked past a variety of stalls and kiosks on his way, some advertising tempting objects, others with tantalizing aromas drifting through the air and delicious looking food on display. It was at one of the latter types of stalls that Keith found two of his teammates, both eagerly devouring bowls of steaming red noodles. Coran caught up to him as Keith grabbed the scruff of their collars and began to drag them away from their flavorful meal. "Hey! I was enjoying that!" Hunk pouted at the same time that Pidge struggled out of Keith's grasp.

"C'mon Keith, we can't even have a proper meal now?" She asked, though she instantly checked herself when she noted the expression on his face.

"What's going on? Did you find something out about Lance?" Hunk wondered, concern filling his voice, as all thoughts of food vanished.

"We have a name and a location," Keith told them as they hurried through the open air market, "We'll discuss it more when we're in our Lions." The group cast suspicious looks about their surroundings, well aware that someone could overhear them at any time.

"Do you...do you think we'll find him? Lance, I mean," Hunk stammered, his gentle eyes full of hope.

Keith didn't want to be a pessimist, but he knew he had to be a realist.

"I don't know."


	6. The Nebula

**A/N**

 **I did say I'd update soon :P.**

* * *

The Kace District, a small section of a glittering city not far from the market where they'd found the vendor, sparkled in a menacing light. The nights on Callioa, the planet which they were on currently, lasted the length of a regular day on Earth, and a day lasted about thirty minutes. Which meant the nightlife on the planet really thrived. Neon lights flickered eerily over the streets, and everywhere Keith looked, he saw poverty poorly disguised in finery. Dancers in vivacious, if not risque, outfits with dark circles under their eyes and tight shoulders, gentlemen in crisp suits with dangerous glints in their eyes, and young girls in lipstick drawn too broadly for their mouths. Callioa was a colony planet, meaning that it had no original inhabitants, and everyone who lived on its dark surface had migrated to it at one point. This provided an easy way to hide among the crowds, seeing how very few people in the streets shared a species. As Keith trudged down the street, his hood pulled tightly over his shock of black hair, he reflected on how long they'd been searching for Raliore Destra. Six days. It had taken them three days to find the Nebula Nightclub, and this was the third night of waiting for Destra to appear. Of course, they had all considered that the vendor had lied, and that Raliore Destra didn't even exist, but they knew this was their only lead. And they were going to follow it until it was a clear dead end. After walking for several moments of tense silence, Keith arrived at the Nebula Nightclub. The pulsing lights, thumping music, and complete claustrophobic feel of the club never ceased to give him a roaring headache and an itching uncomfortable feeling, tonight being no exception. Pushing his way through the horde of people gathered near the front, Keith glanced toward the tables in the corner and nestled in the back, most of them overflowing with energetic people laughing and doing things that Keith didn't really want to dwell on. His eyes darted to Shiro by the bar, who was chatting merrily to a Balmeran, then to Allura in the corner, who seemed to be having an interesting time flirting with some guy. Her posture and facial expressions made Keith think that she was mimicking how Lance acted, which, for this situation, seemed appropriate. Thinking of Lance brought a sharp sense of awareness to Keith, and he cleared his throat, turning on his mic.

"I'm in position. Pidge, Hunk, and Coran, sound off," he announced as inconspicuously as possible.

"It's Hunk, and I'm ready to jump this guy if he comes out the back," Hunk's voice crackled from the earpiece that Pidge had designed.

"Coran here. I'm with Hunk in the back," Coran added.

"Good. Hang tight," Keith replied, waiting for Pidge.

"Pidge here, I'm in position at the front. If this guy doesn't show up tonight, I'm going to personally clobber the guy who gave you this information," Pidge threatened.

"You and me both, Pidge," Keith growled, before glancing again at Shiro and Allura.

"Just a thought, but if the guy _doesn't_ show up, then what are we gonna do?" Hunk wondered, his voice full of anxiety.

Keith gritted his teeth at the thought. "Then we'll keep looking."

The answer was simple, but it was enough to quiet them all.

Keith made his way to the second floor of the club, walking with extra caution in order to go unnoticed. The open area of the club was ringed at the top by a balcony that allowed for a perfect vantage point, and Keith preferred to be able to see everything during a mission like this. After ascending the steps, he leaned against the balustrade of the grated balcony and observed the flow of colors around him as they pulsed along to a furious beat. The dischord of the dancefloor was overwhelming in many ways to Keith, the lone wolf who preferred solitude over company. He often opted for being the silent observer than an active participant, which he recognized was a trait that more often hindered him more than helped him. And as the new leader of Voltron, he knew that he needed to be the one who pulled everyone together rather than the one who let them all fall apart. His mind flickered to the last time he'd been forced into the role of leadership, and just how badly he'd misused his power and almost cost them all their lives. Lance had been there then, and had rightfully confronted Keith, letting him know just how badly he'd messed up. But Lance always supported Keith. Or at least, he had after the Black Lion chose Keith as her next paladin. And that had encouraged Keith, despite the fact that he'd had no desire to be the Black Paladin whatsoever. Keith tightened his grip on the railing of the balustrade, swearing that he'd find Lance, no matter how long it took. Preferably, they'd find him sooner rather than later, not just for Lance's sake, but for the fact that they needed to return to Earth as quickly as possible.

"I've got a visual!" Pidge's voice excitedly yelped into his ear, making Keith jump. "Destra's entering the club, accompanied by two other Galra."

"Understood," Keith acknowledged, a rush of adrenaline shooting through his veins. His eyes gravitated to the entrance, where he witnessed Destra strut in with self-assured confidence. The Galra flanking his sides both appeared to be capable combatants, and Keith instantly noticed the weapons concealed among their clothing.

"All three are armed," Keith warned his team, his eyes never leaving the trio. He watched attentively as the three pushed a group of people out of a booth in the corner and started to order an abundance of drinks, loudly harassing any female who came within five feet of them. Keith noticed Allura begin to make her way toward them, but considering the circumstances, he would have rathered Shiro approach them. However, before he could stop her, she slid into a seat right next to Destra, handed him a drink, and began to flirt dangerously with him. Her mic suddenly turned on, and through his earpiece, Keith could hear their entire conversation.

"Is this seat taken?" She asked, her voice much more husky than normal.

"It is now, darling," Destra replied, his voice making Keith bristle.

Restraining himself from any unnecessary action, Keith continued to listen.

"And who might you be?" Destra wondered, leaning closer to Allura. She pursed her lips, and Keith was amazed at how well she was pulling off her role. After a second thought, however, Keith remembered just how skilled of a diplomat she was, and that she knew how to play to different peoples' personalities and desires. This role was more perfect for Allura than Keith could have hoped.

"Does that matter?" She asked coyly, maintaining eye contact.

"Not at all," Destra purred, dismissing his lackeys with a hand gesture. The two slid out of their seats and melted into the crowd in an instant, leaving Allura alone with Destra.

"Shiro, keep an eye on those two," Keith ordered, to which Shrio replied by leaving his seat at the bar.

"I wonder, what's a strong Galra like you doing at this backwater joint?" Allura inquired, keeping her voice neutral.

"Well," Raliore puffed his chest a little and gave her a sly grin before taking a sip of the drink, "I've got business not far from here."

"Oh?" Allura breathed, her eagerness almost slipping through her facade.

"Have you heard that Voltron has returned?" Raliore prodded, practically waving bait before Allura.

"I might have heard something," Allura tapped her chin and scrunched up her features thoughtfully, for all the universe looking like a thickheaded party girl.

"Well, I captured one of the Paladins," Destra boasted, sending a collective wave of fury through all those listening.

"That's quite an accomplishment," Allura stated, trying to look amazed and restrain herself from wringing his neck at the same time.

"Oh, yes, but you don't want to talk about that, do you?" Destra pushed himself closer to Allura, so close in fact, that he was breathing on Allura's face.

She smiled, probably trying to look mysterious, but instead she looked irritated.

"Or maybe you do. Princess Allura."

A second of shocked silence passed. In a moment of realization, Keith's eyes widened and his body moved on its own, twisting around. With that motion, he barely evaded a hit from one of Destra's men. Pulling out his mother's blade, Keith lunged for the Galra. They danced around each other violently, one attacking while the other dodged at the last second, then repeating the same process. With a heavy arch, the Galran's blade knocked Keith's clear from his hands and sent it flying against the wall. Snarling, Keith jumped away from the Galran's reach and kicked his blade out of his hand in retaliation. As the Galran threw a punch at Keith, Keith grabbed his wrist and, gaining the advantage of momentum, flipped his attacker clear off the balcony. Without wasting a moment, Keith rushed for his blade and became aware of the panicked and extremely confusing conversation flying through his earpiece. In fact, because of so many things happening at once, it wasn't even a conversation, more like a jumble of garbled words. Grabbing his blade, pivoting, and racing at the balustrade at full speed, Keith leaped off the balcony and into the screaming masses below. The patrons of the nightclub were rushing about in confusion, shrieking or fleeing in fear, as Allura battled Destra himself on the floor. Keith landed in a roll and lunged at his previous opponent, who had been advancing on Allura from behind. With several quick thrusts, Keith finished him and continued on to aid Allura.

"Allura!" He yelled as Destra tossed her viciously onto a table, which collapsed under the pressure of her body. Keith lunged at Destra, managing to catch him by surprise and penetrate his side with his blade. Keith tackled Destra, pulled his blade out of the Galran's side, and held it against his throat.

"What was that about capturing a Paladin of Voltron?" Keith demanded, pressing the sharp edge of his sword so hard against Destra's neck that he drew blood.

Destra growled, and in an instant, he pushed Keith off of his body and into a nearby stool. Keith's neck snapped back, cracking his head against hard metal. Groaning, Keith propelled himself to his feet and, with his head spinning, pursued Destra. He followed the Galran out the back entrance, which led into a narrow alley. Destra glanced behind him, trying to gauge just how close Keith was to reaching him. At that moment, Hunk and Coran sprang out from behind a pile of garbage and brought the Galran crashing to the ground. As Keith staggered forward, one hand pressed to his temple, Hunk held Raliore Destra down while Coran stripped him of his weapons and stuffed them in a bag.

"Where's Lance?!" Hunk demanded, gripping Destra's shoulders.

Destra's eye bugged, and in that moment, Keith realized that Destra never knew anything about Lance.

"Where is he, huh? Where's the Red Paladin of Voltron?" Hunk repeated, furious.

"I-I don't know, alright! I've never even seen the guy!" Destra yelped, eyes full of terror.

"Don't lie!" Hunk snapped, "You said you captured a Paladin of Voltron!"

Destra gulped.

"I...I only said that to impress people. M-my Commander captured him about a month ago, but I was at a Nightclub when he did. I was kicked out of his forces not long after. I swear, I'm telling the truth!"

Rage bubbled in Keith's stomach, but he merely sneered. Hunk on the other hand, didn't believe a word that the Galran spluttered.

"How did you recognize Allura then? Even in her disguise?"

"I didn't recognize her at first, but after we kept talking, I realized who she was. Your profiles are drilled into every Galran soldier," Destra blubbered, singing a completely different tune than earlier.

"Coward," Keith spat, aiming the tip of his sword just above Destra's nose.

"Who was your commander?"

"Rask Xeris," Destra replied without hesitation.

Keith shook his head.

"Let him go, Hunk."

"What? But-"

"He won't be of any more help to us," Keith announced, a hint of disappointment creeping into his voice.

"But-"

"Just let him go."

Warily, Hunk eased onto his feet, allowing Raliore Destra to scramble away, his back trusting them too much for any proper Galran soldier.

"What are we going to do now?" Hunk turned to Keith, concern etched across his soft features, "Start over?"

"Not entirely," Keith responded, eyes flashing yellow in the darkness of the alley.


	7. Broken Shards and Healing Fury

**A/N:**

 **This chapter was intense to write. But don't worry, because-**

 **Oh, riiight. I can't say anything.**

 **Spoilers.**

Shattered glass. Lifeless eyes. Splatters of blood across snow white hair. Lance couldn't understand what his eyes were telling him. He stood, paralyzed, in the bridge of the Castle of Lions, a place that in itself evoked a jargon of emotions from him. But the fact that he was somehow in a ship that had been destroyed months ago was not what shocked him. No, the bodies accredited to his current state. Unable to move, Lance gaped at the sight before him. Romelle, her body twisted unnaturally, lay limply on the floor. Coran's corpse lay several feet away from her, not a hint of the mischievous and playful expression he always wore on his void, blank face. Lance's breath hitched, and his body began to tremble. Memories of Coran acting goofy or genuinely consoling him flashed through Lance's mind, quickly followed by those of Romelle laughing brightly or asking incredulous and insatiably curious questions. The sight of the two of them, Coran with a blaster mark through his heart and Romelle with blood soaking her robes, filled him with inexplicable nausea and mourning, but he knew that there was more waiting for him. More sights to shred his heart. He couldn't bring himself to look past the bodies of the two Alteans. Couldn't compute whose body lay near the door. But a nagging, desperate, and horrifying numbness compelled his feet to move and his eyes to look. To see her. Allura, vivacious, intelligent, brave Allura, hands still clutching her bayard, collapsed against the door frame.

Her eyes closed.

Her lips parted, as if still trying to gasp for another breath.

 _Please,_ Lance begged in his head, _please, just breathe._

He anticipated a shuddering of her shoulders, a fluttering of her eyelids as she regained consciousness, or a moan from the pain. He wanted her to feel her injuries, the blaster wounds on her torso, the bruises on her cheeks, the gash on her forehead. Because if she could feel them, if she felt their sting, then she'd still be alive. She'd still see him. She'd huff out his name in her wonderful voice, give him a soft look. Or maybe a harsh look. In the end, he didn't care if she'd hate him, he just wanted her to be alive.

She didn't move.

She didn't breathe.

And Lance knew she never would again.

He wanted to collapse in that moment, to sob over her body, mourning her, Coran, and Romelle. But he couldn't. Something, some unseen force, was pulling his forward. It dragged him past his Princess's body, and through deserted and destroyed hallways. The evidence of battle and the consequences of violence surrounded him as he walked. Faceless soldiers littered the floors, the marks of blasts and blood scarred the walls and floors, and debris covered large sections of the halls. It wasn't long until his eyes caught on an yellow helmet next to a shattered pair of glasses, both discarded next to a spray of dust. Lance refused to assume anything. He couldn't handle the implications the simple sight implied. Hunk was fine. He was making dinner somewhere, or maybe fixing an engine. Pidge was alright. She was just working on a crazy new computer program, and she'd accidently stepped on her glasses in her unobservant rush. Lance didn't dare let his thoughts wander any further. As his feet carried on, his eyes unfocused and his mind dazed, Lance became aware of the distant sounds of blasters and explosions. Tremors rocked the halls as he drew nearer to the conflict, and dust from the grieving castle rained on his head like tears. Flexing his jaw and clenching his teeth, Lance finally made it to the shuttle bay, where a battle of mass destruction raged. Lance had been in the heat of many battles that resembled the one before him, but none of them were like this. His friends-his _family_ -never perished from the previous battles. Every time he felt the pressure and adrenaline of the war zone, he always felt a surreal guarantee that they would all survive, that they were invincible. But what he had seen in the bridge and in the halls proved him so, _so_ wrong. Shiro and Keith stood against twenty soldiers, with Pidge and Hunk nowhere in sight. Lance prayed that they were rigging some piece of godlike technology to debilitate the remaining opponents, instead of entertaining the other, much worse option. From his vantage point, Lance could see a soldier behind Shiro begin to aim. Without thinking, his legs moved before he could stop them. "Shiro!" His voice ripped through his throat, leaving his vocal cords raw. In that split second, Shiro glanced up, a small glimmer of relief flickering across his face, just before the soldier shot him in the back. Time slowed. Shiro was falling, his face overcome by a look of confusion and surprise. Lance was still calling his name. Shiro's frame hit the floor with a sickening thud, and suddenly, the world returned to breakneck pace. With sorrow clawing at him, Lance darted to Shiro, and a second of guilt gripped him, just before he grabbed Shiro's sword and began to swing it at any living thing nearby.

"What are you doing here?" Keith growled, fury and _hatred_ resounding in his voice.

"I'm here to help," Lance replied, fear and terror pulling at his arms, fighting him for control of the blade he wielded.

"Now you want to help? You weren't there when we really needed you, and you've always been a burden. Get out," Keith snarled as he decapitated three enemies in one swipe of his sword.

Lance couldn't take any more. This was too much. He was too weak. Keith was right, if he stayed, he'd end up doing more damage than he already had.

Coran.

Romelle.

Allura.

Hunk.

Pidge.

And now Shiro.

Lance willed himself to give in, to cave to the misery and agony, but just as he started to lower his weapon, a force that felt very much outside of himself injected into his bloodstream a dose of intense anger. And irritation.

"Yeah, right Mullet. There's no way I'm leaving now. Even if I can just save your sorry hide, I will."

Keith grunted in annoyance, but Lance wasn't going to stop in his attacks. He dodged, weaved, parried, and sliced, until there was only one opponent left. That opponent happened to be fighting Keith. And in the moment Lance turned to face them, he witnessed as Keith received a fatal blow. Just as Keith's knees buckled from under him, he managed to stab upward, delivering a mortal wound to his opponent's stomach.

"Keith!" Lance yelped, dashing toward him.

"Don't touch me," Keith snapped, managing to be uncooperative even in his dying moments.

"Hold still," Lance ordered, fumbling for something, _anything_ to shove into Keith's wound to stop the blossom of blood that soaked through his armor.

"Lance," Shiro's voice coughed, causing Lance to whip around.

He was amazed that Shiro was still alive. Then again, this was Shiro. He and death seemed to be avoiding each other.

"Shiro!" Lance breathed, torn between aiding his two friends.

"Lance, there are more soldiers coming," Shiro warned, referring to the fast approaching clank of dozens of pairs of armor rattling together.

"I can get you out of here, don't worry," Lance tried to force a reassuring look on his face, but he was certain that he looked anxiety ridden instead.

"It would take too long," Shiro told him, coughing red.

"No, it wouldn't, I can do it," Lance rambled, eyes wide and chest heaving.

"No, you can't," Shiro replied, any last piece of faith that he might have held for Lance vanishing.

"But-"

"Just go, Lance. Save yourself. The Universe might still need you," Shiro urged, his voice raspy and his breathing shallow.

"I sincerely doubt that," Lance answered, still stuck in the space between Keith and Shiro.

When he glanced at Keith, his eyes met a scowl, and when he turned back to Shiro, he only saw sheer disappointment. Crushed by the fact that he let down the man he respected most, Lance lowered head and squeezed his eyes shut. The pounding of soldiers boots became louder by the second, and Lance knew he couldn't procrastinate much longer. _Think, idiot, think. How can we get out of this?_

"Just take the Red Lion, and go," Shiro's voice sliced through Lance's attempts to strategize.

Lance's head jerked upward. Wait a second. Wait a _quiznaking_ second. Lance couldn't believe it. This was all a _simulation?_ How dare they? How dare they show him his friends perish? How dare they mess with his mind and his emotions like this. Pure, unadulterated fury ripped through him, and he couldn't contain how vehemently his body shook as he yelled, " _No!_ No matter how many times you make me see the worst things imaginable, _I will not activate the Red Lion for you!"_

* * *

Keith's head sagged, exhaustion pulling on his eyelids like two aggravating kids. He hadn't slept since they'd encountered Destra, two weeks ago. They'd searched fervently for any trace of Rask Xeris, but even with Pidge's phenomenal hacking skills, they'd found nothing. The trail had gone cold, and Keith feared that they'd never find Lance. The trickling of doubt shot spikes of panic and depression through him, but he couldn't even address the feelings properly in his sleep-deprived state. Slumping forward in defeat, Keith was on the brink of leaning off of his pilot's seat.

"Keith!" Pidge's voice cracked across the intercoms, affectively startling him so much that he did, in fact, fall out of his chair.

"What is it?" He wondered groggily, hoping that she actually had important news and that he didn't embarrass himself for nothing. Propping an arm on his console, he looked up at where Pidge's face was displayed across his screens, excitement sparkling in her eyes.

"The Red Lion sent us a signal! We have her coordinates!" She announced, practically jumping in her ecstasy.

"What?! Are you serious?" Keith sprang back into his seat, more alert than ever.

"I wouldn't joke about something like this," She responded, too overjoyed to be offended.

"Then what are we waiting for?" Keith wondered, a hopeful smile spreading across his features for the first time since Lance's disappearance.

"Voltron, let's move out."


	8. An Ocean of Memories

**A/N**

 **Hey guys! Sorry that my updating has gotten a little less frequent recently! I've been a little busy, with these past four days alone including schoolwork, two volleyball games and a tournament that lasted all day, and having company over for the weekend. I hope you like this chapter! I wanted to dive (heh heh) a little more into Lance's past, and don't worry, more action is coming! I just have to write it.**

 **Thank you so much for reading my story! It encourages me so much when I see I have a new follower! (And it also kinda makes my day)**

 **I hope you all know that you're amazing!**

* * *

Waves splashed against his skin, enveloping his body as he dove into the refreshing waters of the Cuban coast. With powerful strokes, strong kicks, and a tight core, Lance swam his regular morning route, from the pier by his house to the buoy roughly four miles down the shore. He had always loved to swim, to feel the rush the water instilled in his veins, the shock of the temperature, and the energy of each stroke. He found sanctuary in the solace of the depths, and the peace that the waters brought him allowed him to think. And clear his head. He was eleven when he first started to swim seriously every morning. He'd wanted to make his school's swim team, and there was no way that he'd let anyone be more impressive in their endurance and speed than him. The first time he'd tried out, the coach had actually laughed at him.

 _This is Cuba,_ he'd said. _Anyone can swim at your pace._

After that, he'd swam twice a day, religiously. He'd often swim to the buoy three or more times before his mother would yell at him to get out and take a break. When he tried out again, the coach had to let him join. Of course, after he'd been accepted, he realized that making the team was only the first step. Each swim meet introduced a new competitor, and each defeat felt absolutely crushing.

 _You're not good enough!_

 _You'll never beat me, loser._

 _Get faster or get off my team._

 _There are hundreds of kids who I can recruit at this minute, you think I'll keep you around if you fail?_

The voices of his coaches, teammates, and competitors echoed in his head, their cadence pushing his legs to kick faster. Heart pumping, Lance cut through the water, trying to wash their biting words from his mind. All he'd ever wanted was acknowledgement. To amaze someone. To be good at something. In a family with five children, it was easy to be hidden under everyone else's accomplishments, to be ridden off and forgotten. That's why, at a very young age, he'd turned to being the loudest, most animated, and goofiest of them all. Because then, no one would forget him. Of course, that was also just the way he was. But that perspective, that mentality, he'd carried throughout his entire life. And maybe it would never leave him. Another great reason he loved the water was because it hid his tears. No one would ever know how badly you hurt behind a pair of goggles and the water you buried your head in. The first time he'd cried after a meet was when he was thirteen, after his biggest rival beat him by three seconds. It wasn't a massive amount of time, but in swim, it was a league away. A swimmer could practice their stroke for hours and they might not cut even a second from their time. He remembered the utter disappointment on his coach's face. And the pity on everyone else's. Lance hadn't left the locker room for forty minutes afterwards, determined to not leave with the telltale signs of blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes. Lance dove down, deep into the depths of the ocean, wanting to escape his memories. Switching his kick from freestyle to butterfly and shifting his hands into a streamlined position above his head, Lance pushed himself forward, counting the seconds for how long he could go without surfacing for air. After twenty seconds, his head started to feel light and his lungs began to ache. After thirty seconds his lungs stung. After forty they threatened to explode. Knowing that he needed to surface before he drowned, Lance switched his kick and began to use his arms again. But he hadn't realized just how deep underwater he'd dove. With each pull of his arms he felt a little more desperate, a little more panicked. His lungs begged him for air, and his instincts pulled at his lips, yelling at them to open. But Lance knew what would happen if he inhaled. And he wasn't about to let that happen. Exhaustion clawed at him as he fought to reach the top of the water, while the blue depths seemed to be dragging him down. Pushing harder, Lance battled the urge to breathe and the influence of the sluggish water around him. But without consent, Lance's mouth opened, asking for oxygen. All it received in answer was a mouthful of ocean water. His body swallowed without the consent of his mind, and a flood of water filled his lungs. Chest heaving, his body swallowed more and more liters of water, trying to find some air, _any_ air. Sinking like the dummy they'd used for his test to be a lifeguard, Lance realized with a jolt of nausea that he was drowning. He'd never been afraid of the water, nor of the consequences of what could happen if he stayed under too long. But here he was, eyes bulging, chest allowing gallons of harmful water into his weak lungs, and body weighed down as if it were lead. As if Lance himself were made of metal. Groping for a hand that wasn't there, Lance flailed in hysterical desperation. His mind thought only of air, while his body fell further and further away from the vast supply above the ocean. Growing weaker, Lance stopped wriggling, accepting his fate. Accepting death. And when his vision finally abandoned him, he could only feel relief.

* * *

Lance woke gasping, filling his lungs with loads of precious, expensive air. He distantly noticed that his body was drenched in so much sweat he might have been able to swim in it, but the thought of swimming sickened him enough to block the observation from his mind. His chest shuddered and his mind, rattled and terrified, tried to make sense of his hallucination. Or maybe it was simply a nightmare. He couldn't be certain anymore. Illusion or dream, it still horrified him. He'd never feared water. The sea was his home. It was safety. It was a warm blanket of protection. The ocean was sacred to Lance, and the fact that he dreamt about it killing him shook him to his core. Gulping repeatedly, Lance tried to steady his breathing and not to dwell on his most recent terror. He still lay strapped to the operation table, which made Lance wonder what other plans that the Galra held for him. But at the same time, he knew it was better not to think about it. Lance's stomach roiled and frustratedly stabbed the inside of his skin, reminding him of the starvation that had settled on his body. They hadn't fed him in too long. If they dragged his fast out much longer, they'd lose their subject of experimentation. In between torture sessions, people who he could only assume were Galran scientists who wished to further the Galra Empire's knowledge of the human body conducted endless and awful tests. Some were rather painless, involving the inspection of his ears, taking swabs of salva and other, seemingly humane tests. Others left him scarred in more ways than one. He didn't expect his body to stay together much longer, and Lance could only hope that they'd test how long he could sleep next. The moments of consciousness that he had recently were rather brief, and often blurry around the edges. Like his eyes had already jumped ship. Lance couldn't really focus on anything anymore, and his thoughts were always ridiculous or complete nonsense. As Lance's mind slipped further from lucid thoughts, his expectations for death got higher and higher. If he didn't end up floating peacefully without pain or sorrow on a cloud somewhere, he was going to complain to God. Or maybe to the devil, with his luck. Lance closed his eyes with that thought still circling his head, hoping that this time he wouldn't wake up.


	9. Something Else

**A/N:**

 **I'm so sorry that this took so long to update! I had intense writer's block for this chapter, and I ended up re-writing it a couple times. I also may or may not have been listening to Twenty One Pilots' new album instead of writing buuut...I mean, I've been waiting years for that. Also, Voltron season 8 trailer and release date! Who's excited and scared at the same time? I know I am. For now though, I think I'll go watch the new episode of Attack On Titan.**

 **And in case no one has told you this today, you're amazing and so, so important.**

 **Have a great rest of the day!**

* * *

 _Lance!_

Someone was calling him. A dim recognition lighted in the backdrop of his mind, but Lance couldn't figure out why. Everything was still muffled in the gloom of unconsciousness.

 _He looks…_

 _Snap out of it Hunk, we don't have enough time._

He knew that name. Hunk...wait.

"Hunk?!" Lance's eyes popped open so fast that his eyelids felt sore. Or maybe that was just his exhaustion creating strange sensations.

"Lance!" Hunk's voice embraced Lance's ears like a warm hug, and even though Lance knew that this had to be a hallucination, he wanted it to be real.

Hunk stood to his left, working hurriedly to unstrap Lance's restrains. Lance felt instantly safer, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from his armor clad friend.

"Don't worry, Lance. We're gonna get you out of here," Hunk comforted, pulling off a strap that had weighed on Lance's chest for what felt like eternity.

Lance didn't know he could feel relief and suspicion at the same time until that moment.

"Hold still, this might hurt," another voice said to his right. It was a voice Lance had heard too many times not to recognize. Keith. Lance's eyes flicked to where Keith stood next to him, reaching for the wires that connected to his temple.

Gulping and clutching the sides of his operation table, Lance braced himself for their removal. Keith was mercifully quick, and though it stung, the wires departed from his skin with less agony than he expected.

"Alright, let's get you out of here," Keith grunted, sliding his arm under Lance's shoulders and propping him into a sitting position.

With precise movements, Keith grabbed Lance's hand with his right hand and draped Lance's arm across his shoulders. Pulling Lance off the table steadily, Keith supported Lance's body weight as Lance stood straight. Hunk hurried around to the other side and together, the two of them basically carried Lance out of the room.

"Are you guys real?" Lance asked from the corner of his mouth, fighting the pain that erupted throughout his body from the jostling of their pace.

"What are you talking about? Of course we are," Keith grunted, leading them down a dark purple hallway.

"That's what you always say," Lance commented idly, not expecting them to react.

However, Hunk did cast him a concerned look.

Hunk and Keith must have received a warning from Pidge on their comms, because when they reached a corner they both moved in perfect unison and pushed themselves against the wall. Two Galran guards turned into the corridor on their patrols, and before they could even react, Keith slashed both of their heads off. Without missing another beat, the trio rushed down another pair of halls, the purple and black of the ship's interior blurring together into a never ending wall of bruises. They hurried into a lift, and Lance realized that he was breathing heavily.

"How did you find me?" Lance asked distantly, determined not to fall stupidly for another illusion.

"The Red Lion sent us a signal," Hunk told him, another worried expression clouding his brow.

That was new. Hallucinations demanded that the Red Lion be activated, not tell him that it already had been.

"Where are we?" Lance continued, wanting details.

"In the center of a Galra Warship in an enormous fleet," Keith told him vaguely, obviously not in the mood to dive deeper.

"How long?" Lance rasped. He needed to know. The question weighed on him with the pressure of the deepest trench of any ocean, and he didn't know how he would react to the answer.

Keith and Hunk exchanged looks before returning their attention to Lance.

"A month and a half," Keith finally admitted, letting the knowledge settle on Lance's shoulders.

A month and a half. More like an eternity and a half.

"Let's just get out of here," Lance decided, shoving down the bile that had begun to climb his throat.

"We don't have much further," Keith informed him, shifting slightly under Lance's weight.

Lance didn't believe him. Maybe it was the exposure to false realities for an extended amount of time. Or maybe it was all the crippling moments of disappointment. Either way, he felt a sense of surrealment as they exited the lift and hurried down several more halls. Would he really be leaving? Most of Lance didn't believe that this was real, much less that he'd actually be able to leave. As they hustled down corridors, specks of black flickered across Lance's vision, and his heavy panting was probably audible to every Galra on the ship.

"Hang in there, Lance," Hunk murmured, his eyes roving from down the hall to Lance's face.

Lance said nothing, seeing as he couldn't really breathe normally.

Suddenly, Hunk and Keith propped Lance against a corner, their hands both reaching for their bayards.

"Wait here, Lance," Keith instructed, while Hunk shoved Lance's bayard into his hand.

"Use this if you need it," He ordered, before the both of them rounded the corner, ready for a fight.

Clutching his sides, Lance gripped his bayard with the strength of an invalid and angled his head to watch the action unfolding. Keith and Hunk openly attacked a squad of five soldiers, the two of them ripping through the group in a matter of seconds, with Keith slashing, dodging, and sliding, and Hunk blasting away. They returned to Lance quickly and carried him along in uneasy silence until the screeching of an alarm began to split their ears.

"This is not good," Hunk moaned.

The shrill noise ignited Lance's ever lurking migraine, and everything became excessively confusing. Lance's vision became unfocused, he could only hear the continuous shrieking of the siren, and it seemed as if he missed whole minutes at a time. Colors flashed by, purple and black, then red and white. Disoriented and nauseous, Lance knew he vomited more than actually felt himself in the action. Something connected with his thigh, and a searing pain ripped through his skin and dragged him back to reality. His vision clearing and his hearing slowly restored to him, Lance blinked up at Hunk, not remembering when he'd fallen to the floor.

"Wha-?" Lance noticed the sound of laser blasts flying behind him and frowned, more confused than ever.

"Lance! Thank goodness! You passed out, and we didn't know what to do with you!" Hunk exclaimed urgently, casting glances at the battle over Lance's shoulder.

"I need to help Keith, but I won't be far. If you need help, just yell," Hunk told him, pushing Lance's bayard at him before rushing off to join the chaos of battle. Lance didn't remember giving the bayard back to Hunk, but he dismissed the thought with the rationalization that he must've dropped it when he fainted. The noise of the battlefield was loud enough to prevent Lance from clearing his head completely, and he didn't know if it was altogether smart for them to have left him alone at the moment. Pushing against the floor with all the measly strength that he possessed, the Red Paladin of Voltron managed to sit up, his back supported by the interior of a console desk. A sharp jolt of intense pain rocketed from his thigh to his torso, and Lance bit back a curse. The limp trousers that the Galra had given him were scorched and torn at the source of his pain, and Lance knew that at some point during his unconsciousness, he'd been shot. Biting his lip to keep from crying out, Lance gently pulled the fabric from the wound, and surveyed the black skin beneath it. There was nothing he could do to treat the wound at the moment, and he knew instantly that the wound would leave a scar. Before he could examine the injury too closely, however, the clank of footsteps alerted Lance to the presence of a Galra soldier. Jerking his head up and morphing his bayard into a blaster, Lance slid his finger gently over the trigger and held the blaster to his eyes, years of combat training acting for him. The soldier rounded the console and before he even knew what hit him, Lance shot his thigh. The soldier crumpled to the ground, and before he could do anything more, Lance shot him again in the head. Releasing a relieved sigh, Lance knew he didn't have time to waste. This wasn't a hallucination, he knew that with certainty, and if there was one thing he wanted to do, it was get out of that ship quickly. Scooting forward, Lance maneuvered himself so that he could use the edge of the console that had jutted above his head as a way to pull himself to his knees. After a moment of struggle, he managed to sit high enough so that he could see his surroundings. With narrowed eyes, he gaged the fight before him. They were in the Red Lion's expansive hangar, the Lion herself sitting as stoic and detached as ever. A squad of about thirty Galra were attacking Keith and Hunk, and effectively blocking their path to the Lion. While at first the two of them seemed to be holding their own, it quickly became apparent to Lance that Keith was wounded and Hunk was struggling with close combat. Analyzing quickly, Lance realized that his friends had roughly a minute before something catastrophic happened. He knew that he had to do something in order to help them, and instantly surveyed the console before him and started typing on a nearby screen. With shaking fingers, Lance deactivated the shield around the outside of bay's door that kept the oxygen within the bay and glanced at his friends. Positioning his body so that the console would prevent him from flying out of the hangar, Lance yelled, "Keith, Hunk, hold on to something!"

Without pausing to see if they heard him, he ordered the door to open. The pressure sucked anything not secured into the void of space, and Lance watched as crates, weapons, and unsuspecting Galra shot out of the bay. Keith clung to a rivet in the floor, and Hunk hugged a crate that was tied down. Fighting against the aggressive pull of space, Lance managed to reactivate the shields. After the current of air ceased, Lance's knees buckled, and his body slammed onto the floor. As a grunt escaped his lips, Lance blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to dismiss the black splotches that flickered across his vision. Sitting in a dazed state, Lance felt a strong arm wrap around his shoulders and hoist him to his feet. Keith's voice yelled at him through a pool of murky water, and for a brief moment, Lance felt lost under an opaque sea. Then, without any effort from him, Lance's vision and hearing reverted to normal, and he found himself staring at Keith, who looked concerned, anxious, and irritated at the same time.

"C'mon, Lance, let's get to the Red Lion," Keith urged, practically carrying Lance's weight.

Lance nodded, his head pounding and his heart racing. Just a few more steps. Freedom was so close.

"Where's Hunk?" Lance asked, noticing the absence of his reassuring friend.

"He took Cosmo and they teleported to the Yellow Lion," Keith told him, eyes focused on the Red Lion looming over them.

"Cosmo was here?" Lance asked, as sweat fell from his forehead.

"Yeah, you didn't notice?" Keith wondered, scrutinizing Lance.

"No," Lance admitted, just before another, pressing question popped into his head.

"Why didn't you just teleport me out of here?"

Keith rolled his eyes, "You don't think we thought about that? We need someone to pilot the Red Lion, and I don't even know if she'll accept me. It had to be you, idiot."

"This is a rescue mission. Aren't you supposed to be more nice?" Lance complained, eliciting a wry grin from Keith.

"Good to have you back, Lance."

"Good to be back," Lance smiled back.

And in that moment, in that one moment, they were careless. In an instant, a blast hit Keith square on the knee, bringing them both to the ground with a solid thump.

"Keith!" Lance yelped, fumbling for his bayard. He morphed it into a blaster, and, only managing to assume a crouching position through sheer survival instincts and adrenaline, held its scope to his eye. Trying to shield Keith from another shot, Lance traced the direction of the shot to a balcony to their left. Scarface himself stood on the metal balcony, his eyes glittering with disgusting excitement. The Galran jumped easily from the balustrade and landed almost a hundred feet from Lance. Gritting his teeth, Lance didn't hesitate to pull the trigger. However, Scarface easily and quickly avoided the blast, all the while running for Lance at top speed.

"So the little weakling finally decided to fight back?" Scarface laughed as he evaded Lance's shots.

Lance refused to indulge in Scarface's taunt, and continued to shoot at the monster. _C'mon Lance, this is what you're good at!_ Lance screamed at himself as he continued to miss the Galran. Scarface lunged at Lance and pinned him against the floor, fangs glittering viciously. A burning claustrophobic feeling erupted in Lance as Scarface held him down, instigating a desperate struggle on Lance's part, which included the flailing of appendages and the increasing of blood pressure. The fact that his tormentor's gnarled and horrifying face hung less than five inches from his own spiked Lance's sense of terror to new heights, and the eerie smile that rested on Scarface's lips only added to his fear. The chilling stare of the Galran's eyes transfixed Lance into an almost dream-like paralysis, with his mind ordering his body to run, but his body resisting movement. Twisting his smile into a snarl, Scarface slashed at Lance's face with his sharp claws, igniting a flood of blood that splashed from the Cuban's skin. A howl jumped from Lance's vocal chords, and Scarface moved to repeat the previous motion. Just before his claws touched Lance again, Keith collided with Scarface's side and pushed him off Lance. The two tumbled several feet away, all the while growling and attacking each other. Keith used his blade to slash at Scarface, while Scarface relied on his claws and brute strength. Locked in a fatal wrestling match, the full Galran and the half-blood struggled with each other, both inflicting wounds upon their opponent. After a glint of silver and a rapid motion, Keith chopped off Scarface's remaining ear, prompting a fountain of rage to rip out of Scarface's lips. Fury fueling his movements, Scarface managed to wrestle on top of Keith and trapped the Black Paladin under his hulking mass. Lance, with red blinding his vision and falling into his mouth, wriggled hastily to his bayard, which had been knocked several feet away when Scarface had tackled him. Clutching it and spinning around, Lance shot Scarface in a second of blind panic, effectively surprising the large Galra. His blast connected with Scarface's armor and knocked him off of Keith, but didn't kill him. Biting his lip and ignoring the multiple and rather serious health issues that were vying for his attention, Lance dragged himself closer, in order to get a better angle to shoot his tormentor. Pushing himself up on one knee, Lance unsteadily aimed at Scarface's face, wanting to be rid of his demons forever.

To Lance's astonishment, Scarface met his eyes, and with a completely calm voice hissed, "You can escape, but you'll never leave."

Lance's pulse rioted under his skin, and without thinking, he squeezed the trigger. The blast hit his tormentor square in the face, marring him beyond recognition and killing him instantly. Instead of feeling triumph, or even relief, Lance felt empty. And repulsed. A venomous snake curled in his stomach and sent waves of nausea through him, but before he could truly dwell on the emotions that hurtled through him, Keith coughed. After a moment of exhausted struggle, the two pushed themselves to their feet, using each other as support. Covered in fresh blood and stubborn injuries, the two Paladins limped to the Red Lion, who after all this time and strife, finally decided to cooperate. She lowered her head and allowed them into her cockpit, where Lance collapsed on the pilot's chair, and Keith slumped against the wall.

"Alright, girl, let's get out of this hellhole," Lance announced, then piloted the ship out of the bay. They entered a fray of warships blasting at one another, and Lance was forced to initiate a spinning dive in order to avoid several canon shots.

"Hold on," He called back to Keith, "This is gonna be rough."

"When isn't it?" a voice crackled from the Lion's communications system, and Lance's face lit up behind the layer of blood.

"Pidge!"

"Hey Lance!" She replied, joy filling her voice.

"Good to have you back, Lance," Shiro's voice said at the same time as everyone else began to talk.

Lance didn't really know what they were saying, since his headache was raging stronger than ever, and he barely managed to hear them order a retreat. The Lions pulled away from the fight, fleeing to safety, but danger still followed them. Elite fighter planes chased them, but after several ingenious maneuvers from them all, they managed to beat their attackers and escape their clutches at last. Lance piloted his Lion with them in formation, hardly able to understand his surroundings, and after they landed in a deserted location on a remote planet, he couldn't resist sagging in relief.

"That was something else," He commented to Keith, then promptly passed out.


	10. A Ghost of a Smile

Hunk hated suspense. In movies, in books, even when his friends were telling him a story. He needed to know how everything ended. Was it a happy ending? Did everyone live? Did things turn out well? Suspense killed him, and that was largely attributed to the fact that he could not sit still and wait for something to happen. So, the fact that Lance had been unconscious for three days really drove him crazy. He wanted to talk to his friend, wanted to laugh at stupid jokes and pull pranks on Keith and Shiro and just wanted to be with him. But he wanted him to be awake for it. Sitting by his healing pod for hours on end drove Hunk crazy, but he still did it. Why? Because Lance was his friend, and Lance always drove him crazy, so in a way, this was normal.

"He looks so fragile," Hunk noted to Allura, who sat across from him, her hand gently, hesitantly, touching the glass.

She nodded, her face cut in the expression of someone who needed to cry but didn't want anyone to see them do so. With her free hand, she ran her fingers above where the marks that cut deeply across his right temple, ran through the edge of his eyebrow, and ended at his cheekbone.

"He'll always have these," She said, a hint of sadness fringing her rich voice.

"Yeah, but knowing Lance, he'll probably say something about how they make him look really tough and cool," Hunk told her. If there was anything he hated more than waiting, it was watching those he cared about hurt and worry.

A smile graced her lips, and a small laugh escaped, unbidden.

"I wonder how much food they gave him," Allura voiced, returning back to Hunk's earlier comment.

"Not much, by the look of him. I mean, the guy was always skinny, but now...he's practically a skeleton," Hunk replied, a rush of anger flushing through him as he remembered the way Lance had looked on that operation table. Wires stuck to his skin, completely restrained, complexion ghoulish, and a face so distant and cold that for a horrible tick, Hunk thought that they were too late.

When Lance had opened his eyes, the same blue eyes that had looked at the world with wonder and excitement, when Hunk had seen how hopeless and hollow they now were, he didn't know what to do. What could those ocean eyes have seen that had effectively emptied and fractured them? Hunk didn't know if he truly wanted to find out the truth.

"How's Lance doing?" Shiro asked, entering the room with Pidge and Keith.

"The same as he's been," Hunk replied unenthusiastically.

"He looks better," Pidge pushed her glasses up her nose and inspected Lance's face closely.

Hunk wasn't sure what she was looking for, but he wasn't about to ask.

"Remember, when he wakes up, he won't be the same as before," Shiro told them solemnly.

Hunk recalled the other times Shiro had told them this, but every time before, he hadn't really believed it. This was Lance! Goofy, ridiculous, at times thick-headed, funny, caring Lance. He didn't _change._ But the more Hunk thought about it, the more he realized that he'd been wrong. He couldn't help thinking of all the times Lance had had an opportunity to flirt with someone, and he _didn't._ Or all the times he'd stepped up, accepting Keith as leader, being a compass for the team, consoling others. And that was _before_ he'd been imprisoned by sadistic Galrans. Maybe Lance had changed already, and no one cared enough to notice. Those ponderings scared Hunk more and more each time he thought of them, making him wonder just who his friend had become.

"What if it's not Lance at all?" Hunk's mouth moved before he could stop it. "I mean, what if they did the same thing to Lance as what they did to Shiro? What if this guy's a clone, and the real Lance is…" Hunk realized that he couldn't even complete the sentence, not in his head, and definitely not out loud. "I mean, just a thought."

Hunk sank down in his seat, hoping that the team would stop looking at him like he had three eyes.

"Hunk has a point," Pidge announced, never one to hold back her opinion.

"I think it's Lance," Keith combatted, "A clone wouldn't be so annoying."

Hunk had great difficulty restraining the eye roll that Keith's comment elicited. Everyone knew that Keith and Lance were friends now, and even Lance had dropped the whole "rivalry" thing. But it wasn't Keith's nature to be sentimental, in words anyway, so Hunk ignored what his mouth said and focused on his body language. Yep. He was definitely brooding about Lance still being in a coma. Shifting his attention to Shiro, Hunk observed the way their old leader stood, with his fingers supporting his chin and his shoulders slouched in concentration.

"We'll have to find out when he wakes up. We can't jump to any conclusions or assumptions before we have a good chance to talk to him."

"Of course," Allura agreed, her eyes returning to Lance's face.

"I'm surprised that they didn't remove one his limbs or something, like what they did to Shiro," Pidge noted, poking Lance's left arm, as if she wasn't sure that it was real.

"It was different for me," Shiro replied, lowering himself slowly into a nearby chair. "Back then, I wasn't a Paladin of Voltron, so I wasn't as important to them as Lance was. But, it's pretty obvious they did other things to him that they didn't do to me."

Hunk shuddered as he remembered the brutal scars that he'd seen on Lance's skin when they'd changed him out of his stiff and blood covered clothes. _What did they do, dissect him?_ The words had fallen from Hunk's lips like a waterfall, more of a way to deal with his shock than a proper question. But, he would never forget the sorrowful look that Shiro had cast him.

 _It's more than likely._

Hunk had felt nauseous then, and he felt nauseous now. At least, Lance was safe with them, and if Hunk had anything to say about, this would never happen to him, or any of them, again.

"Do you think Lance will tell us anything?" Hunk inquired, nervous for reasons he didn't understand.

"Maybe," Shiro speculated, leaning forward, "But probably not right away. He'll need time to adjust."

"Right, yeah. Of course," Hunk stammered, looking back to his friend, who somehow, even though he was approaching his fourth day of being asleep, looked exhausted.

* * *

When Lance woke up, Hunk was asleep. He didn't get to see Lance's eyes open, he didn't even get to hear him speak his first words in four days. Instead, Hunk woke up to someone jabbing his face, and when he jerked upright, he headbutted Pidge.

"Ow, Hunk!" She groaned clutching her forehead.

"Pidge! Sorry, I didn't mean to do that!" Hunk hurried to apologize, hoping that she wasn't in too much pain.

"I know," she assured him through clenched teeth, then, rubbing her temples and shaking her head, she announced, "Lance is awake."

"What?!" Hunk leapt from his bed and started rushing out of his Lion.

"Wait up!" Pidge called, her short legs pumping in order to catch him.

"Y'know, why doesn't this surprise me? The one time I let Shiro talk me into going to bed, Lance wakes up!" Hunk huffed, turning into the healing bay in the Black Lion. Breathing heavily and sweating from his sprint, Hunk's feet slowed as he approached the doorway, a million fears crushing him at once. How different would Lance be? Hunk knew it was ridiculous, that Lance had recognized him when they rescued him, but Hunk couldn't shake the terrifying fear that Lance wouldn't know him. That he wouldn't remember Hunk. Gulping, Hunk had just begun to waver when Pidge barrelled right into him and shoved them both into the room. For a girl who was a third of his size, she was rather strong. The pair almost fell on top of each other as they stumbled forward, both sets of eyes silently berating each other. When they found their balance, they both turned to Lance, who gave them a smile that ghosted his normal one. Hunk felt his stomach drop. This Lance was so different.

So much more delicate.

So much more broken.

"Hey, guys," He tried to make his smile wider, and Hunk felt his heart twinge.

"Lance!" Pidge snapped out of her initial revelry and practically threw her arms around Lance, clinging to him like she finally understood that he was back. Hunk inched closer, watching as tears slid down Pidge's face. He didn't know what to do with his arms. Or his entire body for that matter. He glanced to the other side of the healing pod, where Allura clasped her hands over her mouth and Coran was unashamedly sobbing. Keith lurked in the corner of the room, obviously emotional and confused but pretending he was neither, and Shiro lingered at the edge of the pod, his eyes somehow conveying all of the grief that Hunk felt. Romelle sat in a chair next to Shiro, and Hunk sympathized with how uncomfortable she looked. So, for the first time in a month and a half everyone was there.

"How'd you guys find me?" Lance asked, glancing up from Pidge, his eyes suspicious. In that moment, Hunk realized that even though Lance was clutching Pidge tightly, he was still wary of them. And Hunk didn't know why.

A silence settled over them, as if no one wanted to break the peace of unspoken questions. As if they knew that as soon as they spoke of anything, things could fall apart.

"The Red Lion sent us a signal. We traced it to where Xeris kept his fleet of ships. From there it was just a matter of composing a realistic plan and following it through," Shiro explained, taking on for himself the emotional strain that no one else wanted to carry.

"Xeris?" Lance tilted his head and quirked his right eyebrow. The same one that three angry cuts ran through.

"That was the name of the Commander that captured you," Keith voiced, a strange tone seeping into his voice. "The one that you killed."

A dark, and almost-dare Hunk think it- twisted look flashed across Lance's face, before it was replaced by something much different. Lance gulped and angled his head to look at the right corner of the room as he said, "Good."

No one knew what to say. Hunk didn't think that any of them knew this Lance. And that chilled him. Before he could think about it more, however, as if Lance had flipped a switch in his brain, Lance returned his gaze to them and displayed a _real,_ classic McClain smile.

"Thanks for getting me out of there, though, I don't think they could've taken much more of Lancey Lance," He flaunted, pretending to flex his muscles. He said it as if _he_ had been _their_ tormentor, and not the other way around. The joke worked its magic though, because all of the tension in the room suddenly evaporated, and someone laughed. Then, they were all smiling and talking at once, trying to get Lance's attention and tell him about their long quest to find him. Everyone, that is, but Hunk. He couldn't shake the thought that, even when Lance was the most traumatized and broken, the entire team relied on him to be their emotional compass. And Hunk didn't know what that meant for the near-future for the team.


	11. Hiding Scars

Lance's eyes ached. He wished that he could keep them closed for longer than thirty seconds, but everytime he tried to sleep, the blackened face of Xeris stared back at him. Lance couldn't forget the way it was almost smiling at him, as if he'd taken a dare. As if, somehow, Xeris had won. Laying on his bed, his body freezing despite being wrapped tightly in blankets, Lance tried not to think of his exhaustion or Xeris. Instead, he repeated a mantra in his head, mouthing the words as he thought them. _I escaped, I'm safe. I'm with my team. I'm okay._

But he wasn't reassured.

The scars on his forehead throbbed, constant reminders of the last moments of his captivity. The moments when he allowed his cowardice to steal something from him. And he still wasn't sure what it was. He had lost so many parts of himself during his captivity, that he hadn't thought he could lose much else. But as soon as he'd pulled the trigger, something departed from him as quickly as that blast. It had been two weeks since his liberation by the hands of his teammates, and they had rapidly fallen back into a rhythm. They'd returned to their course for Earth, and each day, they ran through the same old routine. They simulated battles, ate meals, held bonding sessions between each other and their Lions, and did absolutely nothing for hours on end. Originally, everything seemed like Heaven to Lance. Except, as time went on, something felt off balance. At first, Lance didn't know what it was, he just sensed something was , as he had hours on end to reflect, he realized that it was _him._ The team kept expecting him to make jokes, anticipating a light-hearted outlook and a confident attitude from him. However, a cloud of gloom and insecurity hung over Lance like a thunder storm, and he couldn't genuinely act as his old self. When he'd come to this realization, Lance panicked. What if they didn't want him anymore? They'd rescued him, believing that they'd get their old friend back, but they'd recieved a cheap rip-off instead. A hollow shell. So, Lance did the one thing that he'd always done, the one thing that he'd relied on to hide his depression and anxieties for years. He lied. And he smiled. And, man, his sides hurt from laughter. Even though every laugh that escaped this lips was another wall added to the defenses that Lance was rebuilding, he felt a small bit of satisfaction with each one. If they still liked him, if they still thought he was fun to have around, they would still want him. He'd still be significant. They assigned him his worth, whether they were aware of it or not. When he was a child, he'd always pined for anyone and everyone's attention, escalating his escapades to great heights in order to hold someone's notice. This led to sometimes dangerous, or unruly actions, and more than once, his school held conferences with his parents. They'd said he was "impossible to tame", a "distraction", and a "hopeless cause". At the time, he desired more than anything to enter the Galaxy Garrison, to fly among the stars, to see the universe. His teachers knew this, and had all echoed the same sentiment.

"He'll never be accepted with such low grades, and if he doesn't stop these ridiculous antics, he won't even be considered."

They were right, and Lance had known it. From that point on, he'd worked harder than anyone in his class. He studied longer, asked more questions, and had almost entirely stopped functioning as a human. After he recieved his acceptance letter from the Garrison, Lance had been esctatic. He'd paraded about the whole house, waving the letter above his head and dancing dorkily. For once, Lance felt as if he'd accomplished something, without using anyone as a crutch. All of that sense of self-accomplishment completely vanished when he reached the Garrison, however. Right off the bat, Lance was labeled as inferior, as a pilot and as an individual. The kids there were geniuses and prodigies, excelling in strategy, academics, and piloting. No one viewed Lance as important, including him. All of his self-loathing and pity, all of his anger at the world, and all of his hatred for fate, culminated into an intense animosity toward one person. His name never failed to be above Lance's on evalutation sheets, was constantly praised by instructors, was worshipped by his peers, and appeared whenever Lance did something mildly impressive. No matter what he did, he was always compared to Keith. And Lance never failed to be found lacking. The fact that Keith dropped out, randomly and without warning, had further aggravated Lance. Everything that Lance had toiled endlessly for, Keith received freely. And Keith just threw it all away without a second thought. That stung like Keith had physically slapped him. Adding insult to injury was the fact that, when Lance met Keith again, right when this whole crazy adventure to the deep sections of space began, Keith hadn't even remembered Lance. It had taken Lance years to come to terms with his aggression toward Keith, and slowly open up to the other boy, but he still saw himself as inferior to him. And Lance knew, that if the other members of the team didn't find him endearing, didn't love him for his personality, they wouldn't want him anymore. And Lance couldn't face that reality.

"Everybody up!" Keith's voice announced over the speakers of the Red Lion, jolting Lance from his contemplations. His mind had wandered far from its original train of thought, and he'd been so lost, that Keith's sudden exclamation surprised him enough to make him fall off his bed and onto the icy, unforgiving floor.

Groaning, he rubbed his lower back and blinked his weary eyes, knowing very well how challenging the day was going to be.

"Why?" Pidge's voice whined.

"Ugh, man, I was having a wonderful dream about burritos before you woke me. Do you know how long its been since I've had a real burrito?" Hunk complained.

"Can't we have a couple more dobashes?" Allura murmured, accompanied with a chorus of muffled agreements.

"No. Come on guys, we've talked about this," Keith snapped, clearly annoyed with his team's lack of disipline. He was one to talk. Lance gritted his teeth and stood up, discarding his blankets onto his bed with more force than necessary, and ran his hands along his face. Maybe if he rubbed hard enough, he'd feel reguvinated. On the contrary, he just felt sore. While everyone else held a rather witty and annoyed conversation between them, Lance changed into his armor. He paused after he pulled off his shirt, gulping at the many scars that populated his skin. He doubted that they'd ever fade.

"Is Lance even awake?" Keith asked testily, his voice cutting through Lance's thoughts for the second time in five minutes.

"Yes," Lance growled, unable to restrain his irritation. After the word escaped his lips, he physically recoiled, horrified that he'd let himself say that with such a harsh tone. Coughing and patting down his askew hair, Lance added, "Yep, I'm awake. What type of simulation do you have for us today?"

He pushed an extra amount of enthusiasm into his voice, hoping that it would make up for his previous inflection.

"I'm glad that one of us is actually taking this somewhat seriously," Keith commented, relieving Lance.

"Is this where you tell us we could all be more like Lance?" Pidge mocked, making Lance cringe.

"No. I don't think anyone would ever say that," Keith replied, sending a pang through Lance's body. It was true. No one ever had said that.

Snickers and giggles echoed across the intercom system, and Lance told himself that even if he was the source of everyone's laughter, it meant that he still held some entertainment for them. So Lance decided to roll with it.

"No one could ever be like me," Lance flaunted, "I'm one of a kind."

"That's true," Hunk grumbled, while everyone else groaned.

Lance grinned despite himself as he entered the cockpit of the Red Lion and slid into his pilot seat. As the newest battle simulation flickered onto the screens before him and replaced the endless expanse of stars, Lance felt his own facade cover him, hiding the scars beneath.


	12. The Product of War

*Allura*

Her heart stuttered when he smiled. Not because he'd said something romantic, and not because she was in love with him. Not because they were destined for one another, or that his laughter awakened her hidden feelings for him. It slammed against the confinement of her ribs because she knew. She knew how artificial his mask of happiness truly was. Every smile that fell from his lips was a lie, and Allura despised lies. But she hated seeing him suffer more. Her pulse quickened with rage at his laugh, at his cockiness, at his jokes. Every single time he talked, he tried to bury himself deeper into the persona that he'd woven for himself. She didn't care to understand his reasonings, although she might have wondered what they were. She merely wanted him to _feel_ his misery. Or, more accurately, to _show_ it. She knew, if he continued like this, he would never step past his ordeals. Allura rarely felt rage. But she could not contain how livid she felt when he sat, within sight but so far out of reach, and laughed like it was nothing. Like _he_ was nothing. Allura knew what he was doing. She didn't know how, but she saw through him as if he were transparent. Perhaps Lotor's betrayal had ripped an opaque cloth from her naive eyes, or perhaps she knew Lance too well now for his ridiculousness. The span of Lance's captivity, when Lance was an unknown coordinate that had to obtained, Allura had felt helpless. Weak. And worried. When he returned, she'd felt relief. After he woke, she felt joy, if not shock. Now, she could only feel fury. And fury did not suit Allura well. It did not frequent her as often as it did Keith, or even Shiro. And it did not carry a layer of politeness because she was a Princess. She experienced it completely, the fire, the blind affinity for violence. Allura did not know how to deal with the emotion, but all too quickly, it washed away. And in the drenched ruins of her heart, she experienced true sorrow. Allura realized, Lance was not the same. And she didn't know why, or even what was so different. As she watched him from a separate world, she felt the gap amassing between them, and worried that it would only continue to grow.

* * *

*Romelle*

Romelle didn't know Lance. She'd only just met the members of Voltron, and until recently, she'd never really had many friends of her own. Her knowledge of Lance spanned from the few, brief interactions they'd shared before his capture, to the gripings of his teammates. She'd heard them call him a flirt. But she'd not once seen him flirt. They called him dumb, but she'd time and time again witnessed his deep understanding for strategy and his ability to quickly assess and adapt to a situation. Granted, he wasn't technologically smart, but by no means was he unintelligent. She definitely knew that he thought very much of himself, she could tell from his words and his body language. Or at least, she'd thought that originally, when she'd first met him. Now, as she observed him, she began to notice small gestures that belied his smiles. A hand shaking. A set of shoulders hunching. Two misty eyes narrowing. At first, she'd dismissed these underlying motions, but after she continued to see them, they screamed at her. She couldn't escape seeing the dark shades that surrounded his eyes, the nervous fidgeting, or even the stuttering. No one else commented about these things, so Romelle considered that, perhaps, she was either delusional, or he had always had these characteristics. But the longer the silence stretched, the more the tension in the space between the group tightened. Stress clung to the air, and everyone seemed to be holding their breath, fearing what might happen if they exhaled. Romelle didn't know what to do, or how to deal with her observations, so she kept quiet, concluding that, surely, someone else on the team had noticed. Yes, the motions were so obvious, someone was probably already planning how to deal with it. But, Romelle's discomfort only persisted, and it developed into a nagging thought, always prodding the back of her mind, never allowing her a moment to rest. Finally, she'd taken her concerns to Allura, hoping for release from her mind. Allura, however, offered no such comfort. She'd merely nodded and told Romelle, " _I know. But I don't know what to do about it."_

And that's when Romelle truly understood. There was much more beneath the surface. His gestures hinted at a storm under the depths, and no one knew how to deal with it. They could only sit on the shore, watching the ocean war with itself.

* * *

 _*_ Coran*

 _The product of war is often ruin._

Coran's uncle once recounted that old proverb to him, but Coran had never really dwelt on it. At the time, peace reigned over Altea, and Coran had no use for a saying about war. When he had thought about it, he'd assumed that his uncle meant the physical results of war. The destruction of worlds, the damage to nations and governments, or the grief assigned to families. Coran had never considered that the ruin ran much deeper than that. It seeped into minds. It rooted itself in the brains of soldiers, or generals, and even kings. Some went mad. Others knew war and only war, and grew violent. And still others...the survivors, they were left with the guilt. And the horrors that never ceased to be recounted, in their thoughts, and in their dreams. Coran had always feared that this ruin would fall onto Allura, the brilliant Princess whom he'd sworn to protect. But as the Paladins had fought harder, and longer, he dreaded the moment that one of them showed signs of this infestation. He'd suspected Shiro at times, Keith at others, and even Pidge. But never Lance. Coran had always assumed that Lance would forever be the optimist, the energetic star that spread its warmth and glow to the others, who desperately needed it. Ironically enough, it was Lance that seemed to hold the most ruin in his mind. The rot had already begun, and Coran knew that if someone didn't try to stop it, it would rule Lance forever. Except, that everyone appeared to be ignoring the Yalmor in the room. They purposefully avoided talking about Lance's time in imprisonment, and hesitation weighed down the entire team of Voltron. In the end, Coran decided, if no one else was going to talk to Lance, then he would have to be the one to do so. One day, when the team had stopped for supplies, he'd approached Lance and laid bare, in what Coran considered was an extremely tactful and sensitive manner, the facts about Lance's ruin. Of course, Lance didn't quite understand everything that Coran said, and he'd directly shifted the subject, which he appeared to comprehend all too well.

" _Honestly, Coran, it's not a big deal. I mean, it wasn't like I was gone for a year or something. Hey, what are those animals called?"_

Coran had become so engrossed in explaining the intricacies of the Florpax, including it's digestive tract and mating habits, that he'd quite forgotten his original intent, and spent thirty minutes teaching Lance about the orange, winged creatures instead. After they'd returned to the Lions, Coran had slapped his forehead with a resounding " _Quiznack!"_ as accompaniment, and sighed. If Lance wanted to dodge all forward attempts to talk, then Coran would just have to find alternate methods.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Hey! Thanks for all the reviews! You guys are so nice and encouraging, and you all brighten up my day. Also, the Florpax is something I made up, I don't think it's mentioned in Voltron anywhere.**

 **I hope you all have a wonderful day!**


	13. Nightmares and Lies

Shiro woke to the sharp inhale of a gasp. At first, the sleep still dripping from his eyelids and muddling his brain disoriented him, but after years of always needing to be alert, he quickly became aware of his surroundings. He was in the Red Lion, in his own bed. Shiro periodically rotated where he slept, seeing as he was no longer a Paladin of any of the Lions. It also allowed him to spend time with each of the Paladins personally, keeping up morale as best he could. Shiro remained, unmoving, under his blankets, as he tried discern whether the sound that woke him was merely Lance breathing in his sleep, or something more serious. Adjusting his head on his pillow, Shiro glanced at where Lance lay across the room from him and frowned. Though darkness clung to the room, lurking in crevices and seeping into Shiro's eyes, small panels on the top of the walls cast a haunting tint of blue on everything, sending a chill of foreboding through Shiro's spine. This light allowed Shiro to see the Cuban boy's frame, which appeared to be shaking, but uncertainty of what he saw gnawed at Shiro. Pushing his blankets aside, Shiro tread lightly across the metallic floor, caution controlling his steps. When he reached Lance's side, however, he knew that his eyes had, in fact, deceived him. Lance wasn't shaking. He was convulsing. The Red Paladin's body shuddered as if thousands of volts of lightning crackled through his bloodstream, and, despite the rather cool temperature of the room, sweat seeped into the sheets around Lance like rain. "Lance!" Shiro yelled, recognizing the situation. "Lance!"

Shiro grabbed Lance's shoulder, trying to jar Lance from the nightmare that imprisoned his brain. Suddenly, Lance's lips opened to unleash a paralyzing sound, a sound that embodied terror colder than any glacier and despair more crushing than an anvil. Debilitating isolation bled through the shriek, and trauma shuddered through Shiro's bones. Before Shiro had a moment to react, Lance lashed out, striking the scarred face of the former Black Paladin. Shiro stumbled backwards, surprised by the force of the blow, and even the strike itself. Raising his only hand to his face, Shiro wiped the blood from his busted lip and tried to breathe deeply. Lance's scream had ripped open the scabbing wound left by his own time in captivity, and Shiro knew that if he didn't get a grip on himself, he could never help Lance. Breathing, although never feeling as though he could fill his lungs, Shiro brought his gaze back to Lance, whose blue eyes glowed in the darkness like scattered embers.

"Shiro…?" Lance's voice emphasized the lost look in his eyes, as if he were drifting through the air when the wind suddenly changed its course.

"What…?"

A moment of frozen realization struck Lance, and he closed his eyes slowly, before instantly opening them.

"Lance," Shiro stepped forward as if he were approaching a rabid animal, and stretched out his hand.

"I'm fine," Lance blurted, though the words contrasted the constellation of tears strewn across his cheeks. The light that glowed eerily against Lance's skin depicted him as the ghost of a sickly sea, that now held more foam than water.

"You can talk about it," Shiro told him, though he stopped his hand before he placed it on Lance's shoulder.

"There's nothing to, to talk about," Lance's stutter conveyed more emotion than he had desired to display, and informed of much more than he had intended to say.

"Alright," Shiro let it go, but sat down on the side of Lance's bed anyway.

Lance gulped audibly, and maneuvered his body in order to sit just beyond an arms reach of Shiro. After a lapse of hesitant quiet, Shiro collected his thoughts, and parted the silence that had draped over the two of them.

"I have them too."

"You do?" Lance asked, his worries and questions beating his reservations.

"Of course."

"Do they...go away? Or get better?" Lance gulped, his desperation leaking through the mask he always tried to wear.

"They become...less frequent, but I don't know if they'll ever leave me," Shiro admitted, absently rubbing the place where his right arm should have connected to his shoulder.

"What...what do you see?"

"Different things, I see them operating on me. I see myself, killing helpless people in order to stay alive. I see my mind losing to itself," Shiro had never told anyone this, not Allura, not even Keith.

"Do you ever think that they'll...find you again? That they'll take you back to the operation table? Or that...you're dreaming now, and that your nightmares are the true reality?" Lance stammered, and Shiro turned his eyes to meet Lance's.

"At first, that was all I could think," Shiro replied.

"But you don't anymore?"

"No."

"Why not? What changed your thinking?" Lance asked.

"I focused on a cause. That distracted me, but that also helped me to deal with my own thoughts. I had a purpose, and I couldn't let my mind destroy me before I completed it," Shiro explained, wiping more blood from his lip.

"What if," Lance flicked his eyes to the ceiling, then to his hands, "What if you don't have a cause?"

"Lance, you do have a cause."

"Well, what if you can't focus on the cause? What if you can't focus on anything?" Lance demanded, exasperation flushing his cheeks and heat crawling up his neck.

"Then you let your friends help you. That's what I did," Shiro responded gently.

"But, what if you can't explain?"

"You don't have to explain, you just have to be honest," Shiro continued patiently.

"But-"

"Lance. We're here for you. We're not idiots, either. We can all tell you're trying to hide what you're feeling, but we don't know what to do about it, or even the extent of what you feel," Shiro knew that if no one else on the team was going to breach the gap and reach Lance, then he would have to be the one to do it. He didn't want to even consider what might happen if he didn't.

"I don't think I can tell anyone anything," Lance confessed, avoiding Shiro's soft gaze.

"Speaking it out loud would be-"

"-too much," Shiro finished for Lance, knowing exactly how it felt to bottle the emotions that sizzled inside, understanding that admitting them to someone seems so impossible, and remembering that whenever the temptation hits you, to explain everything, a knot forms in your chest, and renders you incapable to saying anything.

"Yeah," Lance nodded.

"Then don't say anything. Not until you're ready," Shiro advised, hoping that Lance would heed his advice.

"Is it okay? To act the way I feel?" Disbelief controlled Lance's voice, and Shiro wondered what lies Lance could have possibly concocted and believed in order for him to think this way. Shiro's heart broke at the posture of the boy next to him, his back curved and shoulders hunched, as if he could fold into himself. It seemed as if he were trying to both protect and belittle himself at the same time. Recalling Lance's impeccable posture before his time in captivity, Shiro speculated, not for the first time, just what exactly they did to the mess of a man sitting just feet from him.

"Of course, Lance. No one will blame you."

As Shiro reached to lay a supportive hand on Lance's shoulder, he saw the quick flash of doubt that swept across Lance's face, and heard the barely spoken-practically a sigh- sentence that brushed past the Cuban's lips.

"I hope so."


	14. Struggles

**A/N:**

 **Hey there! So, I was having a little writer's block, and decided to shake things up. I got this idea after I read Tempest In a Teacup by AkaVertigo, and I used the idea of a one word prompt for a sentence, which is from the website Live Journal. I changed one or two of the words, just so that they fit better into my story. I hope you enjoy it!**

 **Have a great day!**

* * *

 **1\. Comfort**

Lance found it strange at first, but over time, the soft tones and compassionate sentiments of his teammates started to mean something.

 **2\. Kiss**

His skin, oppressed by the inky darkness of space and taunted by the dim glow of starlight, yearned for the reassuring touch of the sun.

 **3\. Soft**

The texture of his blankets, and the sheer luxury of his matress, always surprised and secretly delighted him.

 **4\. Pain**

He received a kick to the ribs in training one day, and the blow ignited more than old bruises.

 **5\. Potatoes**

His homesickness reminded him of many things, even the randomest, and most unexpected of subjects.

 **6\. Rain**

The constant and reassuring sensation of thousands of water droplets splashing across his skin and cleansing his weary soul was something that could never be replicated in any simulation.

 **7\. Chocolate**

"It's more than a taste, it's a _feeling_ ," Pidge said one day, and Lance couldn't agree more.

 **8\. Happiness**

Sometimes, it flirted with his brain, tantalizing his senses, but never genuinely giving itself to him.

 **9\. Telephone**

One day, late at night, Lance remembered the old telephone he once saw in a museum, and wished that he could use one to speak with the people he missed the most.

 **10\. Ears**

He was always able to tell when they were talking about him.

 **11\. Name**

Whenever someone called him a Paladin, it reminded him too forcefully of who he murdered.

 **12\. Sensational**

No one knew that his favorite way to cope is to run his fingers along guitar strings, and because he hadn't touched a guitar in years, he resulted to rubbing his fingers together, searching for fading callouses.

 **13\. Death**

He couldn't escape the jet black fingers that reached for his mind when silence fell, and he was unable to stop the old habits he developed during a time when ending everything meant the end of suffering.

 **14\. Love**

He used to think that he felt it, especially for a certain white haired princess, but now he couldn't feel anything.

 **15\. Touch**

He still flinched when someone laid their hand on his arm, or caressed his cheek, or wrapped him into an embrace.

 **16\. Weakness**

He refused to allow the tears that clustered in his eyes to fall before the others.

 **17\. Tears**

They saw them anyway.

 **18\. Speed**

The others thought he'd heal faster.

 **19\. Wind**

He couldn't decide if he'd rather feel a gentle breeze sift through his hair, or an icy blast slap his face.

 **20\. Freedom**

Even in the middle of an infinity with endless possibilities, he still felt confined in his own mind.

 **21\. Life**

Lance knew he should appreciate his more.

 **22\. Jealousy**

Lance didn't understand the burning that engulfed his heart whenever he watched Hunk laugh.

 **23\. Hands**

The only time his hands stopped shaking was when they cradled a blaster.

 **24\. Taste**

Lance forgot that food had any flavor at all.

 **25\. Devotion**

"We're here for you."

 **26\. Forever**

The eternity of space around him paralleled the endless nightmares that plagued his nights.

 **27\. Blood**

While Lance knew that he would forget many things in the future, and hoped that many of his terrors would become hazy dreamlike sequences, the sight of scarlet pouring from his body was not one of them.

 **28\. Sickness**

"If we were on Earth, we could find someone to help you."

 **29\. Melody**

Like ghostly apparitions that appear for a second and flicker away before one can really see them, Lance heard songs in his dreams, and he sometimes found himself humming a tune that he didn't recognize.

 **30\. Star**

"There used to be stars in your eyes," Allura whispered one night, choking on her tears.

 **31\. Home**

While home might be a place, it is also a state of mind, and Lance wasn't sure he'd ever arrive.

 **32\. Confusion**

No one knew why he snapped at them over trivial things.

 **33\. Fear**

The stench of sweat and the sensation of his body temperature rising dilated his pupils, and he had to spend thirty minutes alone, holding his knees and hyperventilating, in order to escape the overwhelming feeling of helplessness.

 **34\. Lightning/Thunder**

As a child, the flash of lightning never scared him, neither did its booming aftermath, and, ironically, those years of fearlessness were repaid with moments of immobilizing terror after any quick spark of electricity.

 **35\. Bonds**

He didn't realize until Keith rested his arm across Lance's shoulder, and Pidge hugged his waist, that he'd never been closer to any other group of people in his life.

 **36\. Market**

When Pidge and Hunk disappeared in the crowd, Lance only felt confusion, but when they returned, a beautiful, makeshift instrument in their hands, and excitement in their eyes, he could only feel gratitude.

 **37\. Technology**

No one wanted to admit that they used the comms to listen to the sound of his calm strumming, and the soft whisper of his voice.

 **38\. Gift**

Lance refused to let go of his new guitar for days, using it during the hours of silence to drive away his demanding, and rather exhausting, memories.

 **39\. Smile**

After he finally mastered a difficult chord progression, the smile that burst across his lips made everything worth it for Pidge and Hunk.

 **40\. Innocence**

"How'd you get those cool scars, Mister Paladin?"

 **41\. Completion**

Lance believed that he left a part of his heart on that operation table.

 **42\. Clouds**

Dark clouds usually reflected his current mood, while soft, pure ones displayed who he wished he still was.

 **43\. Sky**

Once, after he'd felt that he'd mastered the ocean, he had wanted to conquer the sky, but Lance now knew that neither sky nor sea could be defeated by the likes of him.

 **44\. Heaven**

Forgetting everything but the music that he created through his fingertips and tongue, Lance felt true peace only when he sat alone with his instrument.

 **45\. Hell**

The paranoia, the isolation, the trauma, the mental games, or the nightmares; Lance couldn't decide which was worst.

 **46\. Sun**

The sun could never compare to the warmth of Hunk's reassuring smile.

 **47\. Moon**

Like moonlight leading him through the pitch black of night, Lance fixated on one of his teammates' eyes whenever shadows began to swallow him.

 **48\. Waves**

If he closed his eyes long enough, he could hear them crashing against the shore during a storm.

 **49\. Hair**

When brown trusses tangled in front of his eyes and effectively blinded him, he knew he'd spent too long ignoring his appearance.

 **50\. Supernova**

"Do you think I _want_ to be like this?!"


	15. Shock

After Keith's face met the altogether pleasant sensation of his teeth grinding against an incredibly harsh metal floor, he didn't think his day could become much worse. But that didn't stop him from springing to his feet and whirling around, a string of unhappy, and rather explicit, words on the tip of his tongue. However, as he propelled forward, toward the sheriff that had tossed him into the small cell, a force field of violet energy crackled to life before him, effectively startling and electrocuting him because of his close proximity. After the wave of sparks passed over his body, setting his hair on end and sending a mad look into his eyes, he pivoted around, glancing at the other cells adjacent to his own. Each wall consisted of the same purple energy, making the other inhabitants of the cells visible through the force fields. In one cell, two burlesque and rather intimidating Galra glowered at each other, and on the other end, a small, unassuming person, whose species Keith did not recognize, meditated on the floor, three eyes closed in concentration.

Running a hand through his already stiff hair, Keith let a growl of frustration escape his lips.

" _Of course_ we ended up in this mess," he groaned, finally facing his cellmate.

The boy beside him, whose eyes were dangerously untame, cast him an incredulous look.

"Why are _you_ complaining, when _you_ got _me_ into this mess in the first place?!"

" _I_ got _you_ into this mess?! If I recall, you're why we're here!" Keith snapped, on the edge of his restraint.

Lance glared, daring Keith to act on the violent instincts that rushed through his blood like an inferno. Inhaling with as much self-control as he possessed, Keith tried to calm himself. He repeated the words that Shiro had told him, letting them march through his head like a parade.

 _Lance isn't himself, or at least, he's not the Lance you know. He's trying to process everything that happened to him, and it will take him a long time to heal. He'll go through stages, some of which he won't even understand himself. Be patient with him._

"It doesn't matter anyway," Keith sighed eventually, after the vicious buzz of impulsiveness subsided.

In a manner of self-acceptance, he eased himself onto the floor, suddenly feeling the ache in his bones.

Crossing his legs and running a hand through his raven hair, Keith glanced at Lance, wanting to gauge Lance's mood. His companion's shoulders relaxed slightly at Keith's non-confrontational behavior, and after a moment of what seemed like heavy contemplation, Lance joined Keith on the floor, his eyes wearier than ever.

"How did we even get here in the first place? I can't really think straight right now," Lance admitted, his fingers forming chords on an imaginary instrument.

Keith leaned back, his thoughts whirling back to the beginning of the day, and how he had no idea of what was to occur.

* * *

It started normally enough. The group of unlikely heroes had stopped at an enormous space hub, teeming with life and the bustle that accompanies it. Originally, the group had intended to stick together, seeing as they weren't sure if they'd be able to find each other if they separated.

"Can we stop at the food court?" Hunk asked, his mouth watering as the scents of exotic foods encountered his nose.

"We can get something to eat after we find everything that we need," Coran told him, observing a map of the center that was projected on a nearby floating screen.

"What exactly is this place?" Lance wondered, his eyes soaking in all the information that enveloped them.

All sorts of species of Aliens walked around them, some in pairs, chatting amicably with shopping bags on the arms, some with their eyes glued to the ground before them, mouths moving quickly as they discussed business, and still others, in whole families, laughing or arguing with one another. Neon lights blinked, flashed, or glared advertisements, store fronts, and business buildings, each connected to each other like a row of townhouses. When Keith looked upward, he could see through the transparent ceiling to another floor with the same environment. And past that, he could see another floor, and another floor, and still another, the levels seeming stretching to infinity. Glancing below him gave him vertigo, seeing what seemed like hundreds of layers to this expansive city. Every twenty or so buildings, slender tubes stretched downwards and upwards, connecting the numerous levels and acting as elevators. They, like the floor and ceiling, were also transparent, allowing for everyone to not only be able to see the slick and incredible technology that operated the transport, but also the passengers within.

"This hub is much like a city," Coran explained, interacting with the screen to find the store for which he searched. "We're in the shopping quadrant, which comprises of about twenty floors."

The lilt in his voice emphasized the magnitude of where they were.

"There are all kinds of quadrants, some for business, some for education, and others are living quarters. There are even floors assigned to specific species or the planet where they're from," Coran explained.

"Oh! Like Little Italy! Or Chinatown!" Hunk announced, his mind probably imaging the cuisine of the sectors more than anything else.

"Little Italy?" Romelle whispered to Keith, at the same time that Allura wondered, "Chinatown?" on his opposite side.

Before Keith could explain, however, Coran began to go into a long explanation of the system of the hub, and how everything functioned and worked. Although Keith knew that he should listen, his eyes caught on the scars on Lance's forehead, as they often did, and his mind flooded with the concern that he'd felt for Lance in the past couple of months. At first, Lance had acted as if nothing was wrong, but over time, for reasons that Keith didn't really know, Lance had begun to furl into himself, barely talking, barely eating. Barely living. At times, a smile poked through the clouds that seemed to hover on his features, but those moments were few, and very far between. Keith wanted to help his friend, wanted to reach out, wanted to comfort Lance like Lance had once comforted him, but there seemed to be a distance between the two now, as if they'd relapsed into their old mindset. Lance's actions and words had gradually become more and more irritable as well, and Keith knew that he needed to talk to Lance before things got out of hand. Although, Keith wasn't the best example of restraining fury.

"Found it!" Coran cried, cutting through Keith's contemplations.

After a moment of memorizing the directions, Coran led the team onward, his brisk pace making it difficult for everyone to keep up.

After tripping over feet, knocking down unsuspecting shoppers, a cramped ride in a transparent elevator, and losing their way several times, the group passed a performing troupe that caught their attention. Romelle insisted upon watching them, her eyes shining as she watched the acrobats perform flips and twists.

"You get to spend every day with the Saviors of the Universe, and this impresses you more than us?" Pidge asked as Romelle gasped in excitement.

"Can you do that?" Romelle asked pointedly after an acrobat twisted through a series of complicated flips and movements.

"No," Pidge admitted, and Romelle cast her a smug look.

As the show continued, the frontwoman announced that they needed a volunteer from the audience, and in reply, the audience produced a wild show of hands, dozens of spectators eager to join the show. Keith glanced about him as the frontwoman inspected her options, remarking sassily about different crowd members, until her eyes locked onto one in particular, who appeared to desire the exact opposite of participating in the show.

"You, dear, what's your name?" She asked, crimson painted lips enticing.

Keith felt an inkling of fear grip him as he watched her target blink, his eyes portraying his surprise and terror.

"Oh, it's alright, sweetheart, what's your name?" Her voice, like oil, seemed to bewitch the entire audience, and someone pushed her target forward. He stumbled into the ring, all eyes fixated on him.

Keith swallowed as he watched Lance fumble, knowing that, had this happened just months ago, Lance would've held no reservations or fear in being in a situation like this.

"Lance," Lance managed to say, while the frontwoman seemed to be eating him alive with her eyes.

Lance, obviously uncomfortable, tried to shuffle away, but she caught him by the arm.

"Let's hear a cheer for Lance!" She announced, to which the audience gave a rather enthusiastic, and envious, cheer for the boy who flinched from their noise and her grip.

"Now, Lance, can you do something for me?" She asked, her smile radiating menace instead of comfort.

Lance nodded, but his stance looked as if he were ready to fight an army.

"Now, come here," she led him to the dead center of the circle, allowing for everyone to be able to see him easily. Keith could practically see Lance's skin crawling as everyone watched him, and he couldn't help but be struck with how much Lance had changed. Lance used to love attention. He drank it up like water, and thrived in it. But here, in front of so many people, Lance seemed to shrivel into a lifeless, horrified victim, desiring nothing but to be released from the stares of those around him.

"Now, we're about to have our grand finale, and all we need you to do is stay still," she told him, which made Keith as uncomfortable as Lance looked.

"Yeah, sure," Lance muttered, obviously resolving that the sooner he did what she wanted, the sooner she'd let him out of her clutch.

"Marvelous," She exclaimed, before turning to the crowd again, "Let me hear you cheer!"

A roar rose from the crowd, but Keith refused to join in. His friends around him all seemed to be as uncertain and nervous as he was, and Romelle didn't look like she was enjoying the show anymore.

"He really doesn't look comfortable," Someone said to Keith's right.

"Why'd she pick him?" A different voice chimed to Keith's left.

Clenching his jaw, Keith stood, unable to do anything, as performers controlling whips of fire began to crack their whips around Lance's body, forcing him to stand completely still. An acrobat flipped clear over his head and both of the whips as they danced through the air, and two others began to twirl through the air on both sides of the performers with the whips. A performer began to breathe fire in front of Lance, and before long, the entire troupe was doing something rather dangerous near Lance, who tried to stand as perfectly still as he could.

The frontwoman, looking from the crowd to her troupe and back, announced, "You all seem bored! You must have seen people master fire dozens of other times!"

The crowd muttered their agreement.

"Well, we'll show you something truly spectacular!" She declared, and suddenly, the whips of fire turned into crackles of lighting, electricity arching through the air. The transition, obviously intended to seem magical, had its effect on the crowd, and they began to cheer frantically as the firebreather began to exhale lightning, the power and sparks of the element almost touching the audience. No one, seemingly, watched the boy who stood in the middle of the lightning storm, but Keith's eyes never left him. Lance, while previously uncomfortable, was now obviously panicking. His entire body visibly shook, and the crazed look in his terrified eyes was noticeable from where Keith watched everything unfold.

Before anyone could say anything, before Keith could yell for them to stop, one of the performers lost control of their whip, and electricity contacted with Lance's skin, and everything seemed to happen extremely slow and too quick all at once. A mess of singed clothes, burnt hair, dilated eyes, Lance sprang from where he stood, scrambling away from the event. In his haste, he bumped into an acrobat who had just begun to launch into the air. The acrobat tumbled into the lightning breather, who accidentally sent a bolt into the crowd, sending the audience into a scramble, screams rising from the mass of people. Lance, resembling a caged, wild lion stumbled in horror and shock, before seeing the frontwoman rushing towards him. With one glance at her, he instantly moved his feet, sprinting away from the scene in a random direction. While everyone else was caught up with the chaos and disaster of the acrobats trying to right themselves and the performers attempting to control the lightning that they had so foolishly assumed that they could master, Keith propelled himself after Lance, knowing that to let his teammate go would be catastrophic. As Keith chased after Lance, the flow of the people around him closed him off from those behind him, making sure that the only direction to run was forward. Speeding further and further away from the disaster, Keith never let Lance get out of his sight. While Lance might have been faster than Keith at one point, after his general lack of self-care, his strength had not returned to its original state, and Keith was able to maintain a close following distance. Lance didn't seem to know that Keith was even following him. Instead, it appeared as though he was running only to escape. And Keith couldn't help but wonder what Lance was truly trying to escape from.

Escape the lightning? And the crowd?

Probably.

Escape the pain and terror?

Definitely.

Escape the memories?

Undoubtedly.

However, Keith didn't know what those memories were, what kind of sheer trauma they contained. He couldn't force the image of Lance, emaciated, bruised, and scarred, strapped to an operation table, from his mind. And if Keith couldn't forget an image that hadn't inflicted any sort of physical trauma upon him, then what sort of evils did Lance remember?

The thought chilled him.

As Lance ran, he appeared to be looking for a place absent of life. A place where prying eyes could not find him. Except, this city, full of transparencies, held no such place. Finally, Lance found a restroom, and steered into it, chest heaving forcefully. Slowing down, Keith paused, wondering if he should give Lance a moment. As he hovered before the entrance, Keith made his choice after an awful retching sound reached his ears, and he rushed after Lance, heart pounding. He found Lance on his knees, vomiting onto the floor, which, here, was opaque. Lance's hand clutched the wall, his body vibrated violently, and sweat soaked into his clothing and drenched his hair. Sobs filled the still air, and blood dripped from Lance's clenched fists, where his nails bit unmercifully into his skin. Paralyzed, Keith stared at the boy collapsed on the floor, having never before seen him at such a low point. His ribs restricted, and he slowly moved to lay a hand on Lance's shoulder. Hesitantly, his skin touched the rough fabric of Lance's jacket, and Lance jerked his neck to look at Keith, suspicion and distress splayed across his face. His features rabidly shifted to fury and revulsion, and Lance stood, pushing Keith away as he rose to his feet.

"What are you doing here?" Lance demanded, vomit clinging to his chin and around his mouth.

"Calm down Lance, I'm here to help," Keith offered, painfully aware of how horrible of a consoler he was.

"I don't need help! Why does everyone keeping saying that?!" Lance snarled, voice full of a malice that Keith had never heard from his mouth.

"Because we care about you!" Keith snapped, wincing at his own tone.

"If you care so much, why can't you all just leave me alone?" Lance hissed, turning away from Keith, "Or better yet, why didn't you just find me sooner?"

Keith knew Lance was irrational. Keith knew Lance was traumatized. Keith knew that he should be calm, but he couldn't keep his grip on his emotions.

"You know that we tried! You know that we couldn't find you! It was like you dropped off the face of the Universe! Don't you think we tried everything? Don't you think we looked everywhere?! I didn't sleep for days," Keith snarled, scarlet shooting through his vision.

"You didn't sleep for days? I feel so bad for you," Lance replied coldly, sarcasm and tension lacing his voice.

"You know what, we need you Lance, so maybe you should suck it up and stop throwing a tantrum," Keith growled, stepping aggressively toward Lance.

"I'm throwing a tantrum?! Is that what you're calling it?" Lance exploded, his face vibrant with the color of fury.

"Yes, you are!" Keith hissed, inches from Lance now.

"Tell me, have you ever been tortured for a month and a half straight? Have you ever been subjected to hallucinations where you watch your friends die, or everything you've ever believed about yourself has been stripped away? Have you ever desired death because it was better than going through another session where they slice you open while you're awake?! If you have, then go ahead, say that again," Lance pushed Keith slightly, more an invitation for aggression than an outright action of it.

Keith, slightly shocked, couldn't react to Lance's actions, as his mind was still trying to process Lance's words. However, Lance's lust for a fight, and perhaps his desire for destruction, sent him into a rage, and he punched Keith square in the jaw, unleashing a raw strength that Keith didn't know Lance possessed.

When Keith still didn't react, Lance launched himself onto the Black Paladin, pushing Keith backwards and throwing bone-breaking punches. Blood spurted from Keith's nose and lip, and with it, came Keith's own emotions. Finally reacting to Lance, Keith ducked under Lance's arm and hit Lance in the ribs, and, pivoting, slammed Lance into the wall. Keith heard all of the air exit Lance's lungs, and as Lance gasped, Keith let go. He needed to walk away. If he didn't, who knew what would happen?

"I don't want to fight you," Keith said softly, eyes watering at the sight of his friend so broken. Turning his back on Lance, he made it to the doorway before he felt a force ram into him from behind. Twisting as he fell, Keith landed on the transparent floor outside of the restroom on his back, and using Lance's momentum against him, he propelled Lance clear over his head. Lance sprawled onto the floor as Keith got to his feet, and shouts began to ring out around them. Lance hopped upright and catapulted at Keith, adrenaline basically pouring from the both of them. Keith tried to jump out of Lance's reach, but Lance wrapped his arms around Keith and tackled him. Moving so that he pinned Keith down, Lance began to deliver blow after blow to Keith, pain flaring across Keith's face. Screaming in frustration, Keith shoved Lance off and tossed him as far across the floor as he could. Absently, Keith wiped the blood from his face and walked to Lance, hoping that his friend would cool down a little. However, Lance attacked Keith with renewed vigor, his eyes full of cutthroat viciousness.

"This isn't you, Lance," Keith told him, and in that moment, Keith finally understood Lance's pain.

He understood who Lance had become, and what was driving him insane. He could see it all, written like the pages of a book, across Lance's furious face and sorrowful eyes. Lance was angry, yes. But he wasn't angry at Keith. Keith was merely the catalyst and the recipient.

"Please, Lance. I understand now," Keith murmured, ceasing his struggling and releasing the tension in his body, also catching Lance by surprise.

Before either of them could react, forceful hands pulled the two apart, thoroughly separating them. And though they were physically forced apart, neither of their gazes left each other, confusion and clarity displayed in two very different pairs of eyes.


	16. Guilt

**A/N:**

 **Hey everyone! I'm so sorry this is late! I've had a pretty busy week, but I really wanted to get this one out there. This chapter I'd like to dedicate to my great friend Abby, who has acted as a counselor and comforter to me in times where I really needed it. She's kinda like Keith in this chapter, and I'm like Lance, except, different circumstances and all. Also, Keith's a bit of a different kind of comforter than she is, but you know what I'm saying. So, thanks Abbyeet, for being awesome. (And thanks also for being my only friend that reads this consistantly, even though you know nothing about Voltron).**

 **I hope you all have a friend like her, and if not, then I hope you find one.**

* * *

Itching clawed at his insides. It surged through his limbs, manifesting like a disease in his body. Like a sea of lava, it festered under his skin, boiling and steaming and making him shift in his position on the floor. The rash burned his tongue, and a ball of hot fire tore up his throat. It singed the inside of his mouth, burnt his tongue, and battered at the inside of his lips. Though he tried, he could not withstand its burning intensity, and finally, he caved, parting his lips and allowing the sensation of incineration to exit.

"I'm sorry, man," Lance's voice cracked, the words wobbling off their perch on his tongue, leaving a blister in their wake.

He forced himself to look at his cellmate, though his jaw clenched painfully and his nails dug into his pathetic flesh.

The two of them had been sitting mere feet away from each other for what felt like hours, neither saying a word, both consumed in thought. The silence had devoured Lance, and he needed reprieve, even if that meant confronting an issue that he'd rather avoid.

Keith raised his head, dark eyes reflecting the mood of the uncertain atmosphere. The glow of purple shaded him in a violet shadow, and the dried blood on his face acted as a painful reminder of past events.

Keith raised an eyebrow, before leaning back and running a hand through the tangles of his hair.

"Don't worry about it," he replied, but Lance wouldn't let it drop so easily.

"I-"

Suddenly, the words, once so eager to burst into the open, refused to come. His mouth, arid and dehydrated, could not form what he wished to say, and after he ran his tongue over his lips, the words became like little children who disobeyed every command. They stuck to his throat, pulled at his tongue, and clung to his lips, but eventually he dragged them out, his determination to say them stronger than his dread.

"I shouldn't have attacked you. I was wrong to let my temper control my actions," Lance hung his head, disappointment and guilt shredding his intestines and mind.

"I promised to support you, and I failed in my oath. I don't expect you to allow me to continue as a Paladin of Voltron, and I understand your reasoning," Lance's heart burned now, but what was done was done, and Lance knew that he needed to face the consequences. Even if his memories of the event were blurred and tinged with rage, and he could barely remember the details, he would never forget the pain in Keith's eyes after their brawl.

Lance waited, not daring to look at Keith, heart racing and hands shaking. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging his irises and evoking tears from his tear ducts, but Lance fought them with all of the strength he had left. If Keith was going to expel him from Voltron, he refused to let the last memory that Keith would have of Lance to be him weeping. Gritting his teeth, he anticipated the harsh words that would surely fall upon his head, but instead, a small breath of laughter escaped from his cellmate. Jerking up his head, Lance stared, confused and dumbfounded, as Keith laughed. Lance couldn't recall the last time he'd seen Keith laugh, and his mind could not comprehend how his cellmate could be expressing a symptom of _joy_ in a moment such as this.

"Keith?! Are you alright? Did I hit you too hard in the head?!" Lance finally managed, concern swarming his head. Pushing himself onto his feet, he moved toward Keith, uncertain of his next course of action.

"Keith? Keith?"

Of all the things that had happened to Lance, of all the strange and foreign sights that he'd seen, Keith Kogane, the Black Paladin of Voltron, laughing in a prison cell with blood all over his face was, in fact, the strangest.

"I'm alright, Lance, stop worrying," Keith chuckled, a sly grin cracking the dry blood on his lips and revealing his teeth.

Lance could only look at Keith wide eyed as the he turned to face Lance.

Shaking his head, Keith clamped a hand on Lance's shoulder, all marks of amusement vanishing as his eyes took on a compassionate light.

"Lance, how could you even think that?" Keith shook his head again, still marveling at his friend.

"You once swore to support me, and I once told you that the team needs you. And we still do. You are crucial to our team, and I won't kick you out just because you lost control for a couple minutes. Besides, we didn't just spend all that time searching for and rescuing you, just to leave you in the middle of space because you got a couple of punches in on me," Keith told him, his eyes maintaining pure sincerity the whole time.

"What I said back there, why I'm like this…" Lance faded out, not sure how to finish his sentence.

"I get it, you don't have to explain," Keith told him, honesty written all over his face.

Lance eased himself into a sitting position, letting his body relax just slightly.

"I...want to try," Lance decided, realizing that for once, he actually wanted to tell someone. He wanted to say everything, wanted to explain every detail, every single scar, every single moment of sheer terror. The desire to spill everything flooded him, and he clenched his fists in order not to start rambling.

Keith nodded, waiting, and Lance rubbed a hand over his face, thoughts racing as he formulated his words. His eyes traveled to the scars on his arms, and their newest addition, a bright scarlet burn mark where a lightning whip had connected with his skin.

"Back in the Galra ship," Lance began, doubts and paranoias already struggling with his need to express his trauma.

"Back in the Galra ship, they used to...electrocute me when I refused to activate the Red Lion."

The sentence dangled in the air between them, and Lance knew that if he didn't continue now, he'd never finish.

"I don't know how many times they did it. They strapped me to a table and the intensity got higher and higher with every wave. I would pass out from the pain at times, electricity jolting across my vision the last thing that I saw. Then I'd wake up, and as soon as I opened my eyes, there the sparks were again."

Keith said nothing, but Lance took his silence as a sign to carry on.

"At first, right after they captured me, I rebelled in every way that I could. I attacked the guards, refused to eat, or didn't talk at all. I even managed to escape my cell once," Lance paused, the memory of a desperate dash for freedom, of a heart pounding louder and louder with every passing second, and of the eventual punishment that resulted from his escapade overwhelming. He still couldn't dwell on that memory, as everything about it conjured too much horror.

"After that...well, I stopped fighting," Lance admitted.

He waited for Keith to reprimand him, maybe spew some propaganda about never giving up, but Keith merely gazed at him, expression neutral.

"I gave up, Keith. I couldn't take the pain anymore, so I…" a glob formed in Lance's throat, and he had to swallow it with great concentration.

"I tried to activate the Red Lion. I thought...well, I thought that if I gave them what they wanted, they wouldn't need me anymore, and they'd kill me."

There it was.

"I didn't even want to go home anymore. I just wanted death."

Lance's eyes darted in all directions, and he hadn't even noticed that his fingers were dancing through the chords of his mother's favorite song. He couldn't bring himself to look at Keith, the admision leaving him more vulnerable than he would have ever preferred.

"But they didn't kill you," Keith finally replied, his factual response safe from evoking any destructive emotions between them.

"No, they didn't. Because I couldn't activate Red."

"What?" Keith wondered, his face finally shifting from a devoid expression to one of surprise.

"The Red Lion decided that she didn't want much to do with me either," Lance conceded, a cold bitterness in his tone.

Keith brought his hand to his chin, pondering the statement.

"The Lions are mysterious Lance, we still don't know very much about them. She probably knew what was happening, and knew what it meant for the Galra to have access to her," Keith explained.

Lance shrugged, and the words that next came out of his mouth were ones that he hadn't even admitted to himself.

"Our bond hasn't been the same. We can operate, but I don't feel as connected to her as I used to. Not that I ever really had as strong of a connection to her as you did, though."

Keith's eyebrows raised, and he changed his position on the floor, resting his elbow on a propped up knee.

"That comes with time, Lance. You'll warm back up to each other," he consoled, but Lance didn't really believe it.

Keith sighed, then his eyes clouded over, as if just now realizing how deep were Lance's scars, and just how plentiful were his wounds.

"What else did they do?" Keith wondered, his voice calm, and the way he said it made Lance feel as though he could dive into the tumult of his troubles like they were a clear pool, not a raging ocean.

"Anything that they could," Lance knew it was vague, but he didn't know how much he could take at one time.

"The worst part of it all, was that I couldn't trust myself anymore. I wasn't even sure who I was at the end, and I'm still not sure. Everything that I'd worked for felt meaningless. Everything that I thought was important to me was stripped away, and in the end, when everything was gone, when it all mattered, I was a coward."

A lull elapsed, the only sound the humming of the force fields around them. The scent of old blood and burnt skin, of body odor and tension, lingered in the air, stinging Lance's nostrils.

"No, you weren't."

Lance's blood froze. Moving his head slowly, as if in a dream, Lance examined Keith, trying to understand the intention behind his words.

"What?"

"You weren't a coward Lance. And you never have been one. Everything you've ever done has been selfless and full of courage. Ask anyone on our team, and they'll tell you that you are many things, but cowardly is not one of them," Keith clarified, a fire flickering inside his eyes.

"But-"

"Lance, you've lived through things that I can't even imagine. I can't fathom the amount of courage that it takes for you just to get up in the morning, or to be talking to me right now about it."

Lance blinked, speechless.

"Come on, man, you're the bravest person I know," the corners of Keith's mouth curled upwards, but Lance looked away, trying to process.

Keith's words meant so much to Lance, but he still couldn't bring himself to believe them.

"I didn't want to keep fighting, I did everything they wanted! How is that brave?" Lance demanded desperately, eyes bloodshot.

"Lance, what they did to you...it was unthinkable. You're actions were understandable," Keith continued, his voice still as calm as the morning air before a storm.

"But I did everything that we've been fighting against for years! I did what I swore to never do! Understandable isn't the same as being right, right?" Lance argued, adamant, and perhaps, just a little too starving for confirmation.

"Your actions had no major repercussions on us, so you don't need to worry about them," Keith told him, and his words added another stab to Lance's already tattered heart.

Although Lance knew Keith hadn't meant it in that way, it sounded to Lance as if Keith was dismissing the importance of Lance's actions, their impact on others, and his concern about them. Trying to prove he wasn't mistaken in his existential torments, Lance persisted to debate against himself, almost wanting to convince Keith of all the things he believed about who he was.

"I...I murdered Xeris. I looked him right in the face as I pulled the trigger. I knew what I was doing, but in the moment, I was so terrified. And I wanted to kill him. I wanted to rid him from existence," Lance stopped, the words so hard to push from his throat.

"I've never felt so much hate...so much suffering. I don't know what I wanted, I just wanted him to die."

"You wanted revenge, Lance," Keith clarified, his eyes never leaving Lance's face.

The weight of that simple sound, that basic word, comprised of seven letters, shoved against Lance's shoulders and encaged his ribs, forcing the boy to breathe in tight rasps. Lance had never considered himself the kind of person to seek out revenge, but the memory continued to replay through his mind, and Lance remembered the twisted feeling that had snaked through his gut, and how wrong it felt. But he also recalled how much he'd welcomed it. The face of Xeris, charred beyond recognition, seemed to grin wickedly at Lance in his memories, and his last words echoed, unbidden, through Lance's mind.

" _You can escape, but you'll never leave."_

Xeris had been right all along. Lance couldn't possibly imagine leaving the entire experience behind him, he couldn't comprehend nights full of sleep and without nightmares, he couldn't envision days without the constant fear of his own memories and mind, and he couldn't wrap his brain around the thought of eating without everything turning to ash in his mouth.

"But, Lance, he would have hurt so many more people if you hadn't killed him," Keith pointed out, to which Lance shook his head.

"That doesn't mean intentionally killing him was right, does it?"

"In situations like that," Keith leaned back, analyzing the ceiling, and choosing his words with care, "Black and white fade to gray, and in the aftermath...we're left with unanswerable questions. Who can say what you did was right or wrong now? But what you did, is _nothing_ compared to what they did to you."

"I took his life."

"And he destroyed yours."

"You know, there's always this argument, what makes a hero any different than the villain if he kills on purpose, and I can't help wondering-"

"Some things shouldn't be dwelled on," Keith interjected, his expression sterner than Lance had seen in the conversation.

"Why not? What makes me any different than Xeris?!" Lance let his fury and fear seep from his lips, and Keith responded in kind.

"The fact that we're having this conversation makes you different, Lance! Xeris killed and tortured without thought or conscience, but you can't escape the guilt! That's what makes it different! And I know you Lance, you wouldn't kill an innocent person on a whim like he did!"

"But maybe he started out that way! Maybe he was just like me, but after time, he kept dismissing his morals one by one, until there were none left!" Lance snapped, terror penetrating his bones like metal claws.

"What is this really about?! What are you really afraid of?" Keith challenged, a bead of sweat falling from his face.

"Are you afraid of becoming him?" Keith pressed, the sentence a whisper and a scream at once.

Lance gulped, and his fingers faltered in their movements. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded, his neck stiff and his blood a roaring river in the dead of winter.

"Well, you never will, because you have something that he didn't," Keith declared, an almost smug look on his face.

"And what's that?" Lance inquired, skeptical.

"He didn't have an entire team of people dedicated to his well being," Keith announced, crossing his arms.

"He didn't have friends who cared about him."

Lance couldn't stop the hesitant smile that tugged at his lips, and a muffled chuckle shook his chest.

"Man, Keith, you're getting kind of sappy," Lance joked, but the tears that sat, welled in his eyes, spoke the truth.

"Yeah, well, I still won our fight," Keith smirked, coaxing a look of disbelief from Lance.

"You sure about that, cause I'm pretty sure I pummelled you, Mullet," Lance snarked.

"You don't remember much of the fight," Keith challenged, "And I remember all of it. I think we both know who would remember who won."

"Yeah, sure. You're just saying that because my small amnesia gives you the chance to discount the truth," Lance countered.

"Think that if you want," Keith rolled his eyes, but a smile quirked on his face, and the sight of it gave Lance a little hope.


	17. Sinking into Depression

"Hey, Shiro?" The Green Paladin asked hesitantly, eyes fixated on the control panel before her as she inconspicuously muted her comm system.

"What is it, Pidge?" Shiro wondered, his voice soft and reassuring.

"I'm...worried about Lance. I mean, he's been sad ever since we rescued him, but ever since we left that Space Hub, he's barely said anything."

"So, you noticed too, huh?" Shiro sighed behind her, and she could practically hear him leaning against the far wall of the Green Lion's cockpit.

"And not just that...he hasn't been playing his guitar either," she declared, the statement evoking a keen sadness in her heart.

Shiro walked to the pilot's seat, positioning himself at her right shoulder.

"I hadn't noticed that."

"Really?" Pidge looked at him, her eyes as wide as the brim of her glasses.

To her, the change had been blaringly obvious. Without the soothing music of guitar chords strumming through her speakers, every noise had become ten times louder. And, in the still moments of the day, an abyss of condemning silence affronted her ears without remorse.

"I suppose I should have," Shiro shook his head, "After all, he's been playing that thing almost every moment since he got it."

"Yeah," Pidge agreed, an unsettling feeling casting itself over her body.

Lance hadn't seemed to let go of the guitar for weeks, and now, he didn't seem to even look at it. Something had to be wrong, but Pidge had no clue what it was. And she hated that.

"Lance has been...troubled for a while now," Shiro contemplated his next words carefully, "And I think this is just another stage in his healing process."

" _Healing_?" Pidge sputtered on the word. "He doesn't seem to be healing to me."

Shiro chuckled soberly, "That's because it takes a very long time to heal from this sort of thing."

"So, he has been healing?" A wisp of hope blossomed in Pidge's chest, and she looked at Shiro expectantly.

"In little things, yes. But he's still trying to figure everything out," Shiro admitted.

"Do you think he'll ever be back to the way he was?" Pidge voiced.

Surprising Pidge with his certainty, Shiro instantly replied, "No. He'll never be the same."

* * *

He liked to compare his moments of crushing depression like dreams, appearing sporadically, never lasting for too long. Only haunting him randomly, the spells used to seep into his thoughts and burden him for a time, but somehow, he managed to pull himself out of their oppressing mire eventually. But, now, he felt trapped in an infinite nightmare, one that weighed on his body and drugged his mind. One that sapped every ounce of energy from his body, that terrorized him mind, never let him sleep, but never let him be truly awake either. When he did sleep, it was far too long, which annoyed his teammates to no end. Or at least, that's what he told himself. He relapsed into awful habits, ones that should never see the light, and he found himself lacking the ability to think clearly. His mind was a bog so thick with fog that it was impossible to see mere feet in front of him, and when he took a wrong turn, he began to sink into the murky, parasytic depths that consumed his soul. They swallowed his feet first, then crawled up his shins, and entrapped his knees. Lance couldn't focus on anything, and his days blurred together in a slideshow of grays. Whenever he attempted to encourage himself, to remind himself of everything that hinged on him and his teammates and all the things that he should be excited about, like finally reaching Earth or seeing his family, his thoughts only made him heavier. He couldn't imagine doing anything. What was the point of it all anyway? He was supposed to be fighting a war. The war that had lasted for 10,000 years, that war? How could a bundle of misfits that might never have met if a series of coincidences hadn't aligned, how could they stop such a war? And how was he even contributing to this team? They didn't need him. Why was he here? And say that they did put an end to this eternal war. How long would that take? Years? How many years? Two? Five? Thirty? Lance didn't see the point. He didn't feel the same conviction that he'd originally held at the beginning of all this. But, then again, he wasn't the same person who had piloted the Blue Lion from Earth's atmosphere, who had left his family behind without a moment's pause, who had craved adventure in every inch of his fiber. There wasn't a point. How could he carry on? He was too exhausted, too drained. Sleep tugged on his eyelids, static crackled through his brain, and hunger twisted his intestines, but the motivation to sleep, to eat, to even breathe, had left him. He could only lay in a pitiful state of existence on his bed, his limbs refusing to function and his heart barely beating. At one point, he remembered hearing someone's voice talking to him. But he had been unable to understand it, much less recognize it. Then, he'd heard a number of voices, but the way they'd talked all at once had confused him, and he let himself sink, the murk in his mind reaching his hips. Soon, new voices began to whisper to him, but these were different from the previous ones. These he could understand, and to these he even listened. They crept along the banks, their sources unseeable through the mist that clouded his vision, but their words all too clear. With tones of lush temptation and murmuring each phrase like a soft lullaby, they coaxed him into a state of almost relaxation.

 _Let it rise, don't fight it._

 _Stay still, everything will be better if you don't move._

 _Nothing matters anymore, there's no reason to struggle._

Lance let the voices slide into his mind and heart like the sludge that continued to immerse him.

Further and further he submerged.

At first, his descent was slow, without rush. Almost soothing. But suddenly, he felt himself falling faster. The mire engulfed inches of skin at once, devouring his torso before he could truly grasp what was happening. His arms floundered in panic, as claustrophobia overtook him, but all too soon, his shoulders had disappeared. Only his neck and head remained above the surface, and Lance could only stare in terror at the depths, in a quick rush he realized what he had allowed to happen, and his horror paralyzed him as he gazed at the unknown. He watched in shock and gruesome fascination as his neck submersed under the opaque sludge. He could still feel his body, but he couldn't move, and in the end, he lacked the strength to even try. As his chin tingled from the touch of the depths, he prepared himself for the inevitable.

The unavoidable.

With a final breath, Lance felt the waters enclose over his head, and he kept falling, until he couldn't see or feel anything at all.


	18. A Candle in the Dark

"No. He'll never be the same."

Shiro's statement weighed on Pidge, making her feel physically ill all of the sudden.

"But he will get better," Shiro amended, jolting Pidge from her fear.

Shiro smiled slightly at her expression and continued, "He won't be the same Lance, he'll be more somber, more jaded in some ways. But he'll be more like his old self. Who knows? He might even go back to making his bad jokes."

Pidge shuddered at the thought, but smiled just the same.

"At least that means that he'll be happy," Pidge noted, before adding, "The jokes aren't too bad, but if he reverts to spurting out horrible pick-up lines, I'm going to duct tape his mouth."

Shiro laughed, and shook his head, "I'm fairly certain the pick-up lines are in the past."

"Good," Pidge grumbled, but in honesty, she'd rather hear him tell a ridiculous pick-up line then endure the silence in which he'd buried himself.

* * *

Emptiness.

All he could feel was the absence of everything.

Lance wasn't sure if it came from the void surrounding him, or the pit within him. Either way, he allowed it to eat at his skin, his will deteriorating. As his body plummeted rapidly, and yet lay suspended at the same time, an image sparked in his memory. At first, he didn't notice it. Then, it pushed itself to his immediate attention, demanding acknowledgement. Grainy and distorted, this memory was faint, and Lance couldn't discern the moment in his life from which that it came.

He could see…

Blue.

Like a burst of lighting on a clear day, the memory came into focus, and he could see it, an ocean. The sound of waves crashing filled his ears, the touch of water rippling over his skin ghosted his body, and a breeze carrying the scent of salt somehow reached his nose. At first, the memory was pleasant, if not puzzling. Then, his lungs recalled being empty of oxygen, and in its place, water seemed to fill him once more. Curling in on himself, Lance retched, the phantom sea water not once reaching his lips. Lance felt the helplessness of death in the depths once more, but his phobia propelled him into action. Convulsing, he clawed at his throat, too overcome with fear to realize that he was moving.

That he was fighting.

Air.

He needed air.

Without thinking, he kicked his legs and pushed his arms in long strokes, desperately hoping for relief. Shoving himself through the thick sludge that held him captive, Lance twisted upwards. But the murk did not want to release him. It attacked him from every angle, pushing him from above and pulling him from below. The complete darkness that encircled him oppressed his senses and battered at his struggling limbs, yet Lance did not stop. Fueled by desperation, Lance only plunged deeper, his fanatic movements working against him. As he dropped, Lance felt the pull of submission, and too soon, he sagged, ready to accept his perishing once more. But something inside him changed. All at once, the burning in his lungs shifted, from lack of air, to the presence of a flame small enough to be flickering on the wick of a candle. But it began to swell, and suddenly, it grew into a vicious fire, roaring and snarling. Lance didn't know where it came from, but he was tired of his own exhaustion, and he finally made a decision. He wasn't going to give up again. With a strength that appeared from nowhere, Lance pushed upward, fighting the darkness and the weight of the depths all at once. The journey to the surface was much harder than the trip to the bottom, but Lance refused to stop. He had no idea how far from the top he was, how much longer he'd have to swim, but he knew that he had to do this. If he didn't, he'd be lost forever, spiraling without direction and dead to the world. With each kick, his body became weaker and weaker, and his mind began to drag, his weariness overpowering. But somehow, he kept fighting. And after what felt like an aeon, his hand broke through the mire, and the crisp air encouraged him. With one final burst, spending the rest of his reserves, he collapsed against a bank, shaking and gagging.


	19. A Reflection of Starlight

Gasping, Lance jerked upright, his arms flinging forward as if to ward off an enemy. Sweat doused his body and the sheets that twisted around his legs, but Lance didn't care. Surging out of the confines of his bed, his vision burst into kaleidoscopes from the fatigue that racked his frame. Ignoring every alarm bell that his body was throwing his way, he peeled the sheets from his legs and discarded them to the ground without a second thought. Leaning against the wall for support, Lance dragged his hands down his face and moaned. While he rubbed his palms against the skin of his face aggressively, he tried to clear his head. He still heard the calling of his demons, and that terrified him. He didn't want to embrace them again, or dance in their clutches willingly. He was determined to fight. Placing one hand on the wall, he made his way to the Red Lion's pilot's seat and his knees gave way just in time for him to collapse into it.

"Is anyone awake?" He asked aloud, sending a signal to the other Lions.

He didn't care if he had to wake someone, or even if he irritated them. He just needed to hear some else's voice.

"Lance?" Pidge's voice met Lance's ears instantly, and he sagged in respite.

"What's wrong?" She asked, her image appearing on his screen, "You look…."

"Awful?" He supplied for her, a hint of a grin toying with his mouth.

"Well...yeah," she admitted.

"Not used to seeing Lancey Lance look bad, huh?" Lance joked, and the look of surprise she gave him was one that he wasn't likely to forget.

"You're...joking around?" She blinked at him.

"I guess I am," Lance muttered, before sighing and cradling his head in his hands.

"How can I do that?" He had meant to merely think it, but the words left his mouth anyway.

She gave him a sad smile and simply replied, "'Cause you're Lance."

"I have no idea what that means," he deadpanned, but felt grateful nonetheless.

She raised an eyebrow, then seemed to remember the situation.

"Hey, you didn't answer my question. What's wrong?" She repeated.

"That...doesn't matter," Lance announced.

"I disagree," Pidge adjusted her glasses deliberately.

"What I mean is…"

Lance didn't know what he meant.

"Just, talk to me," He finally blurted.

"I am talking to you," She pointed out.

"I mean, talk to me about anything, or everything. I'm tired of being stuck inside my head, thinking only of me. Tell me something about you."

"So, you want me to distract you."

"Just stop being difficult and tell me something!" Lance raised his arms in exasperation.

"If you say so," She rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway.

"Well, I just beat the hardest level on Killbot Phantasm-"

"Wait, really? How?!" Lance interrupted.

Before his capture, he'd lost to that level time and time again. At that point, he'd thought that it was the hardest thing he would have to overcome. Boy, those were good times.

"Well, you see, it's all about the angle in which you approach it," she explained, her eyes sparkling.

"If you barrell into the level head-on, you'll just keep dying. You have to find a different method."

"Huh," Lance grunted, the advise sounding applicable for more than just the video game.

"Oh! And I invented this new-"

After those words, Lance did not understand a single word that she said next, as a stream of scientific jargon spilled from her lips. Although completely lost, Lance nodded his head and smiled, trying to follow her rapid rambling of the intricate workings of her new invention.

"That's great!" He said, when she ended her in depth description.

"You didn't understand a word I said, did you?" She sighed, but didn't seemed too surprised.

"Sorry, that kind of stuff goes right over my head," Lance admitted, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.

"That's alright," Pidge gave him a lopsided smile and continued, "Though, Keith seemed to get it."

"Well, that's great for him," Lance rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what Pidge was doing.

He'd always had sibling-like relationship to her, and she'd never missed an opportunity to try and rile him up or put him in his place. In honesty, he appreciated the fact that she wasn't afraid to treat him the same as she'd always done. It was comforting, and to Lance, it meant that she believed in him. By mentioning Keith, she was trying to agitate his competitive nature. However, at the moment, Lance didn't have the energy to even care.

"Hey...Lance?" With Pidge's hesitant tone, the mood between them shifted, and Lance braced himself for whatever she was about to ask.

"Yeah?" He wondered, the word barely stumbling through his chapped lips.

"Do you ever feel guilty for just...leaving your family behind?" she wondered, chewing on her lip. In that moment, Lance realized that he wasn't the only one with a deep homesickness, and he berated himself for being so caught up in his own heartaches.

"All the time," He admitted softly.

She looked slightly relieved, but then continued, "I mean, I didn't even tell my mom I was going to the Garrison. I didn't think about her much at all, honestly. I was so caught up with finding my dad and Matt, and I left her all alone."

Lance leaned back in his chair, in a whirlwind of thought.

"I didn't think about my family either. I didn't stop to think about the consequences, or what the Garrison might have told them about me. They must think I'm dead by now," For a moment, just a moment, he let his self-pity overshadow Pidge's feelings, and when he glanced back her, he noticed the strained look on her face.

"Oh! I-uh, I didn't mean that your mom might think-"

"No, it's ok," she waved off his desperate attempt to salvage his statement.

"I mean, its logical right? That she'd think I'm dead. And she's all alone. She must have been devastated."

"Hey, your dad should be with her by now, right? She knows that you're all alive now," he told her, trying to keep her from being overcome by her guilt.

If anyone knew about all-consuming guilt, he did.

"Yeah, but, for, a year? Two years? She thought we were all dead. I can't imagine how she felt," Pidge's voice cracked, and Lance paused, realizing just how vulnerable she was.

Her eyes fell on her hands that were tightened into fists on her lap. Gulping, she seemed to be fighting the tears that threatened to overflow, and Lance knew he needed to abandon his own issues in order to console her.

"Hey," Lance said gently, "Hey, look at me."

With great uncertainty and reserve, Pidge lifted her chin and met his gaze. Her caramel eyes shimmered with unshed tears, reflecting starlight even though she was on the verge of breaking.

"What you did, you did because you thought it was right. You knew your dad and brother were alive, and you weren't going to let anyone tell you otherwise. Your determination led you here, and though it may have been hasty, and not very well planned, it turned out pretty well. Your mother would understand, and when you see her, you can apologize and hug her until someone has to pull you off," Lance chuckled a little at the image, and Pidge couldn't help but smile.

"What if she wants to kill me?" Pidge asked, suddenly very afraid of maternal fury.

"Oh, I'm sure at one point she felt that way, but I think with all of the factors she'll probably just cling to you as much as you'll cling to her."

"Maybe," Pidge wiped the palm of her hand along her eyes, and inhaled shakily.

"What do you think your family will do?" she tilted her head, and Lance gulped.

"They'll probably be nice for about five minutes, then they'll all start trying to kill me," he joked, though sadness thickened his tone.

"With the way you talk about them, they seem pretty cool."

"Yeah," Lance let a bittersweet smile fall upon his lips, and his eyes cast sideways, to where the stars shined through his screens, "I hope they're doing alright."

"I'm sure they're doing just fine, if they're anything like you," Pidge comforted, and Lance brought his focus back to her.

"What makes you say that?" He inquired.

"Well, you're a survivor, after all," a light sparkled across her irises, "And I think your family might share some of your strength."

"Strength?" Lance scoffed in disbelief and arched his eyebrows.

"Uh, yeah. I mean, you lived through a month and a half of captivity, you've almost died who knows how many times, and you actually _did_ die that one time," Pidge, a tough match to Lance in stubbornness, pointed out.

"Yeah, but that one time Allura saved me," Lance argued, and Pidge shook her head.

"After _you_ saved _her_ life," she shot back.

"Well, I'm sure someone else would've figured out a smarter way to do it," Lance declared.

"Don't be so sure," Pidge scolded.

"How would you have done it?" Lance demanded, certain that she'd spout something about angles and scientific theories.

"The same way you did," she replied smugly.

"Well...that's stupid," He folded his arms and regarded her sternly. "You're not allowed to act so rashly."

"But you are?" She gave him a reproachful look.

"Yeah, cause I'm not as important to the team as you are. I'm expendable," Lance explained, and in response, he'd never received such a murderous glare.

"You say that again and I will personally get into the Red Lion and hit your head against a wall until you recognize your self-worth."

"So violent," Lance tsked, but a grin burst through his attempted serious expression.

Pidge rolled her eyes and brandished her fist, "I mean it."

Except, Lance heard the laughter in her tone.

"Hey, stop looking at me like that, I really do mean it," She snapped, but Lance could only grin wider.

"Sure," he taunted.

"Alright, that's it," She made to get out of her chair, but Lance stopped her.

"Alright, alright! I believe you, I believe you," He waved his hands before him and watched as she eased herself back into her seat.

She skeptically narrowed her eyes at him, but then seemed to let it go.

"So, what's the first thing you want to do when you get to Earth? After you see your family, that is," Lance asked, in a better mood than he'd experienced in quite a while.

"Eat food that actually looks like food, not space glop," Pidge declared as if she'd thought about it frequently. "What about you?"

Lance contemplated, his hands itching to hold his guitar all of the sudden.

"Probably just stand in the rain for three days," he half-joked, standing up.

"Where are you going?" Pidge called as he traveled deeper into his Lion.

"Just hold on a tick, I'll be right back," he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

After he returned to his seat, guitar cradled in his fingers with reverence and care, a look of joy passed across Pidge's face, though he didn't notice. Tuning the instrument absentmindedly, Lance continued, "I miss rain. When you just stand in it, clothes sticking to your skin and your hair getting drenched, you feel as if the world is making you new."

"I guess it could feel that way," Pidge supplied, "Whenever I got caught in the rain, I never liked it, because any sort of technology I was carrying didn't really agree with the massive amount of water."

"That's too bad," Lance mumbled, strumming a few chords quietly. "There's really something indescribable about it."

"I got pneumonia once for staying in the rain too long when I was really little," Pidge added monotonously, unaffected by Lance's passionate adoration for the weather condition.

"Yeah, I never got pneumonia," The Red Paladin wasn't sympathetic in the slightest.

"That's probably because you lived practically in the tropics!" Pidge sniffed disdainfully, but Lance merely shrugged.

"That might have something to do with it," Lance conceded, grinning at his hands as he played through a melody by memory.

Their conversation fell into a comfortable lull, with Lance strumming a calming tune and Pidge listening with barely concealed delight. He didn't know how much the sight of him playing meant to her, so he didn't notice when several silent tears trickled down her face. Nor did he notice the expression of deep relief displayed clearly on her features. Lance was unaware of the time that passed, or even how many songs he played, but before he knew it, he had begun to faintly sing along. As he played as many folk songs as he could remember, each one reminded him of the family he'd left behind. Yet, somehow, as the familiar tunes emanated from his fingers and swirled around the room, he didn't feel hollow, as he often did. Instead, they evoked buried memories, ones that he'd refused to recall, simply because they delivered too much pain. The melodies wrapped around his heart, and it seemed, as he played each one, that his family wasn't galaxies away. As if a simply tune could carry him across miles and miles of empty space, just to be with them. The Spanish that stumbled from his lips reminded him of how out of practice he'd become with his home country's language, and though the thought saddened him, the sound of the words comforted his weary mind. As each song's chords echoed around him, time seemed to forget him, and Lance's mind felt at peace. What finally interrupted his impromptu acoustic session, was the gentle snore of a certain Green Paladin. Glancing up from his guitar, Lance smiled at the Pidge, whose mind had left him behind and entered the realm of sleep.

" _Buenas noches_ , Pidge," He said in a hushed voice, his mind still lost in the flow of Spanish.

Standing with great care as to not make much noise, Lance carried his guitar back to his bed, casting one last glance at his sleeping friend as he went.


	20. New Reality

**A/N:**

 **Hey there! This chapter has scenes from episode 9 of season 7. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

" _The Earth is overrun by Galra._ "

The sentence reverberated through Lance's head like a heavy bass beat and pounded against his forehead with a ferocious intensity that threatened to split his skull. It horrified him, knowing that his home planet, which he had always believed to be beyond the touch of the war that had broken him in so many ways, had been under the oppression of the Galra while he was away. At first, he could hardly comprehend the news. Surely, this was all a cruel joke? But Lance knew no one would ever even consider joking about this situation. Whenever he'd imagined Earth, and his family, in his mind's eye, he always saw it unchanged. He'd never paused to consider that his world might be in danger, or that his family might not be safe. With a pounding heart, he tried to steady his nerves.

His family was fine. They were waiting for him.

However, the more he attempted to convince himself, the more he worried. Whatever doubt that existed in his mind about the Galra controlling Earth disappeared the moment he saw Platte City. One a thriving city full of life, it now cursed the land that it rested on as a desolate phantom. Buildings, emanating a sorrowful aura in their collapsed state, streets, disfigured by the debris that blocked their path, and dust of splintered glass, soot, and ash, surrounded him. The mourning atmosphere of the city reminded Lance of the other civilizations he'd seen ravaged by the Galra, and Lance felt as if he were in a room comprised entirely of thin glass. If he took one misstep, everything would shatter around him. The dilapidated metropolis, soulless and razed, sent a haunting shiver through his body, and Lance gripped his blaster tighter, the unease of approaching confrontation nagging his bones. As he continued through the city, the rest of his team behind him, his senses were on edge, and he made certain to survey every angle. Just when the team passed a sagging building with an enormous hole in its side, several sharp, violet laser blasts began to rain upon them.

"Take cover!" Lance ordered, shoving his back against the windshield of a nearby overturned car.

Keith dove next to Lance as the rest of the team scattered, hiding in various positions and shooting back at the circular drones that were attacking them. Grabbing a brief opportunity, Lance stood from his crouch and managed to send several shots to the nearest drone that hovered above him, however, he didn't have enough time before a drone's blast hit the car too close to him, and he had to return to his position behind the windshield.

"I'll distract it, you take the shot," Keith commanded, his back to Lance.

"Don't miss," he added, and Lance tried to focus on the situation at hand, and not the jab at his abilities.

Keith sprang from the safety of their position and launched himself over the roof a nearby car, running at top speed down the desolated street. Sure enough, the drones turned their attention to his movements, giving Lance the chance to leave his spot and train his blaster on his target. Raising his scope to his right eye and closing his left in deep concentration, Lance aimed. As soon as he pulled the trigger, he positioned the blaster to the angle of the second drone, and in turn, the third, managing to destroy them all within five seconds. As Keith asked Pidge about a way to tell when the drones were approaching, Lance allowed himself to exhale slowly. His nerves, like fireworks beneath his skin, refused to settle, and he assured himself in the fact that he had easily shot those drones. Yet, he still couldn't calm himself. Before the group had time to truly recover, more blasts began to besiege them, and once more, the group dashed to find cover. Instead of drones, however, this time they were under fire from three Galra soldiers. Adrenaline enticing his veins, Lance shot one soldier in the shoulder, and managed to take another out completely. Calculating its movements, and the angles, Lance began to train his scope on the third soldier, but before he could pull the trigger, he heard shots from behind him. Pivoting, Lance managed to enhillate one drone, the machine exploding from the impact of his blast. As Lance began to focus on the other drone, a blast originating from someone else's gun destroyed it, and Lance was left to watch the rubble.

"I had it!" Keith snapped with hostility, and Lance glanced behind him, to where Keith faced two newcomers. They wore Garrison colors, and Lance's eyes rapidly darted to the rovers parked nearby. In the heat of the quick battle, Lance hadn't even noticed their arrival.

"Drones send distress signals when they're attacked. Our weapons neutralize those signals, so unless you want to deal with a swarm of those things, let us handle it. Now, let's get out of here before more show up," One of the Garrison members snarled.

Lance recognized that voice. And the aggression behind it.

James Griffin.

Lance remembered him from his time in the Garrison, and, all in all, he'd disliked Griffin almost as much as he'd hated Keith.

As Lance scrambled to the rovers with the others, he deliberately chose to board the one that Griffin wasn't driving. Old insecurities resurfaced at the sight of him, and Lance would rather not encounter him just yet.

* * *

The drive stretched to an eternity. The thick air clogged Lance's throat, and his fingers moved so frantically that he was certain that even the Garrison girl noticed. He didn't recognize her, but she seemed about his age, and he couldn't help wondering if she'd been in his class. Or if he'd even flirted with her at one point. The thought that it was more than likely that young and naive Lance had hit on her twisted his stomach, and he couldn't imagine doing anything like that now. He'd probably vomit if he tried. Hyperventilation threatened to overcome his lungs, and Lance deliberately tried to slow his loud and probably irritating breathing. Goosebumps rose on his arms, as he was certain everyone in the rover was painfully aware of his anxiety. His back shuddered, and he found himself sitting straighter, biting the inside of his lip, and stuffing his hands under his thighs, hoping that if he did that, he wouldn't annoy anyone. Gulping, he stared out at the barren landscape that rolled past his window, and gnawed at the soft flesh of the inside of his mouth. Would his family be there? Did they know he was alive? Were they safe?

Worries swarmed his thoughts like a nasty hive of wasps, and he found himself asking the one question he'd refused to allow himself to even ponder before.

 _Are they dead?_

A severe chill descended onto his body, and, paralyzed, he tried to face the possibility. What if he never saw his mother again? What if he never got to hear his sisters laugh again? Or, what if his brothers never teased him again? What would he do, if his family were dead? How could he possibly go on? They had been his hope in the midst of torture and captivity, and in the dark moments after, when he'd wonder if staying alive was even worth it. Without them, he'd lose to himself. There was no doubt in his mind, the blow would be the last one he'd ever receive. Shaking, Lance forced himself to look at his fellow passengers. At Pidge, who perched at the edge of her seat with excitement and anxiety battling for dominance over her features, at Hunk, whose eyes carried a heavy burden, and Keith, whose face was turned away from him. They had supported him all this time, and they hadn't given up on him. How would they react if he entertained his thoughts? What would they do? Would they even miss him? Lance couldn't pretend that this was the first time he'd thought of this, or even the twentieth. His mind had run through every possible outcome hundreds of times, and each time, he'd never felt any satisfaction. His musings, dark as they were, left him more numb than before in most cases. As the rover crested a hill, Lance's eyes widened at the sight before him. An enormous dome of orange shielded the entirety of the Garrison's base, and the sight of Altean technology on Earth left an odd feeling in his brain. The moment of truth was fast approaching, and after several moments of agonizing silence traveling across an empty plain, the gates opened before their rovers, and they were admitted into a dark tunnel that cast shadows across their faces. Lance's hands picked up the riff in a song that he'd once struggled drastically with, but he didn't even realize that he'd moved them from under his legs. Sweat dripped down his forehead and burned his eyes, but he didn't care to try to wipe the droplets away. In a moment of self-awareness, Lance found that his jaw was clenched so tightly that he could barely open his mouth, and that his spine ached from the strict rigidity that he'd enforced upon it for the entire ride. Emerging from the tunnel like it was a wormhole to a whole other reality, Lance blinked at the vast difference within the dome than outside of it. The stark change from a carnaged city to miles of nothing to rows of neat and militaristic buildings caught Lance off guard slightly, but his heartbeat was pounding so hard that he could hardly dwell on it. If his heart jumped any higher, he was certain that it would fly right up his throat and out of his mouth. Gulping for the upteenth time, Lance felt his convictions waver, and all of the sudden, he wanted to be anywhere but where he was. He didn't know why, but the thought of confronting a daunting possibility terrified him more than the prospect of returning to the heat of battle, or even another term in captivity. If his family wasn't there...

He couldn't look. His eyes glued themselves shut, and the complete darkness that faced him, though consuming and interwoven with despair, comforted him with its familiarity.

He felt the rover stop, but he couldn't bring himself to see what lay beyond.

The soft whoosh of the door opening alerted him to the fact that his friends were probably already rushing to enter the other universe that awaited them, but Lance couldn't move from his seat. His body was made of solid ice, and the rover was the frozen arctic that kept him from melting.

He felt Pidge move beside him, then her voice penetrated his fear, the emotion in it cracking the glacier that had formed around him.

"Mom!"

He couldn't stop himself.

He opened his eyes.

What he saw reminded him that he wasn't the only one who'd left their family behind. Pidge's small, birdlike body was wrapped in the arms of her mother, and the two of them knelt on the ground beside the rover, tears falling without shame from the both of them. With his heart in his throat, Lance's eyes met Hunk's, and his body moved without the consent from his doubts. He exited the rover as fast as possible, disregarding his icy fear for one second. That one second was the best decision of his life, for as soon as his feet hit the ground, a voice he could have recognized his sleep cried out, "Lance!"

In shock, Lance turned his gaze to the direction of the voice, and the sight that greeted him was more than he could have ever hoped for.

"Uncle Lance!" Two children sprinted towards him, and Lance's body surged forward, his only thought on the people before him.

"Hey!" He cried, skidding onto his knees to throw his arms around his niece and nephew.

Not two seconds later, more arms encircled him, until he didn't know why he'd ever been worried in the first place.

"My son," His mom's voice murmured from next to him, and tears welled within his eyes.

"It's so good to see you."

"We never gave up on you!"

"I missed you so much."

Their voices filled his head and calmed him, but he still couldn't process that they were there. That they were alive. Their embrace seemed to protect him, at least for a moment, from all the misery and horror that he'd endured, and all the darkness that lurked behind his shoulder at every turn.

"Oh my gosh, you two are so much bigger now," Lance marveled, looking at his niece and nephew, while there were so many thing he wanted to say, so many confessions he needed to make, this was the first thing that came to his mind. They were five years older than when he'd last seen them, and in fact, he was surprised that they remembered him at all.

"You're the same size!" His nephew exclaimed, "But those are new!"

His nephew pointed to the scars on his temple, and suddenly, Lance's temperature dropped. The safe haven that his family had created crumbled around him, and the memories, the unwanted memories, flashed through his mind. Xeris's charred face. Lightning. Blood.

So.

Much.

Blood.

Lance leaned back involuntarily, and the look that crossed his face must've scared his nephew, because he inched away from Lance with a confused look in his eyes. Trying to compensate, Lance let an infectious smile spread across his face and ruffled his nephew's hair.

"Yeah, they are pretty recent," he amended, but he could hear the strain in his own voice.

"How'd you get 'em?" His nephew warmed back up, instantly forgetting the previous moment.

"I just got them in a space fight," Lance shrugged, but the eyes of the kid before him began to absolutely sparkle at the sentence.

"Wow! A fight in space! What was it like?!"

"Well…" Lance didn't want to recount the story at all, especially not here, not now.

"Shhh, honey, Uncle Lance doesn't want to talk about it right now," Lance's sister-in-law chided, and Lance cast her a grateful look.

"I can't believe you're here," Rachel, Lance's sister, hiccupped through her tears.

"Me neither, Rach'. Me neither."


	21. Avoidance

He knew he shouldn't avoid them. After all, they were who he'd desired to see the most for so long, weren't they? They'd greeted him with open arms and warm hearts, and he could feel how much they loved him with each embrace, each soft word. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to look any of them in the eyes. He couldn't stand being false to them, but he couldn't bring himself to tell them the truth. Terrified of pitying looks, strained smiles, and tangible disappointment, Lance had resolved never to tell them. However, sour bile rose to his mouth whenever he lied to his family, and he knew they didn't deserve to be told lies. While his guilt chased him from those he loved the most, the fact that most of his teammates were not a lucky as he to have their family with them increased his speed. In an imprisonment camp, forced to labor through all hours of the day, malnourished and abused, Hunk's family slaved away. With one parent deceased and the other fighting in the deep regions of space, Keith had arrived home with no family to greet him. And Allura, her family was dead.

Perhaps these facts should have made him more grateful for his family's safety, but all they truly did was add weight to his already burdened frame. Why should he receive such a blessing if his teammates were denied the same thing? He was neither deserving nor worthy. Thankfully, the preparations and planning to overthrow the Galra gave him millions of excuses to avoid his family. Except, that is, for one member. her in an environment of war and interacting with her in a militaristic style definitely required adjustment on his part, and try as he might, he couldn't stop seeing her as the solemn little bookworm who bought him ice cream every Wednesday after school. After he found out that she'd joined the Garrison after his disappearance, he'd wanted to convince her to leave. To stay with the rest of the family within the Garrison's shields and be safe. The thought that she might encounter situations that he'd endured with an indescribable amount of agony and lingering mental damage haunted him constantly, eating at his mind throughout all hours of the day, refusing him sleep, and gnawing at his sanity. Not that he slept normally or had much sanity left in the first place. At one point, she'd even been on a mission with him, and her words, though feisty and true, did nothing to abate his worries. She wanted to do her part for the world, and she couldn't sit back idly and watch the world burn. Lance knew selfishness motivated his emotions toward her position in the garrison, after all, he didn't know how he could survive her death, but he couldn't shake the paranoia that accompanied him with each step.

"Hey, Lance? Lance? Earth to Lance," Hunk's hand waved in front of Lance's eyes, and Lance realized where he was.

"Oh, sorry, Hunk. I got...distracted," Lance admitted, pulling the sleeves of his garrison uniform down nervously.

"Yeah, I could tell," Hunk noted, not unkindly, as the two of them resumed their gait through the hallway.

The two of them turned a corner and continued down another long hall that seemed to stretch endlessly before them. Despite its length, not a single person was to be seen, which relaxed both of the Paladins.

"Man, these uniforms mess me up," Lance announced after a substantial lapse in their conversation.

"What do you mean?" Hunk inquired, eyeing Lance.

"It feels like we never left, like Voltron was all a really weird, nightmarish fever dream."

"I wouldn't call it a nightmare," Hunk said softly, but Lance shook his head.

"I would."

Lance knew he'd made Hunk uncomfortable, as he often made anyone if he so much as implied anything about his time in captivity or his issues with mental health. But some part of him felt a burst of satisfaction, watching people trip over their tongue as they tried to say something that would come across as both sensitive and respectful, all while wanting to quench their own curiosity about him.

But Hunk only shrugged, "Well, we had different experiences."

And Lance thanked God for Hunk for the millionth time in his life.

"But, yeah, it is weird. I mean, wearing this makes me feel like Iverson is gonna start yelling at me for sleeping in or trying to convince the cook to feed us something edible."

Lance gave him a lopsided grin at that, but it fell off his face when Hunk continued.

"It also makes me feel a lot less capable, like how I used to be," Hunk confessed.

"What do you mean?" Lance wondered.

"Well, I mean, I threw up in a battle simulation once. A simulation," Hunk chuckled to himself, but Lance could see the humiliation and shame in Hunk's gentle eyes.

"I remember that," Lance ducked his head, the event a stain of embarrassment for him as well.

"I tried to brush everything off, making excuses for my mistakes and pretending like it didn't really matter anyway," Lance reminisced. "But I can still feel how deeply disappointed in myself I was."

"You were upset too?" Hunk turned to face him in surprise. "But you acted like it was nothing!"

"Exactly," Lance nodded, "Isn't that what I just said?"

"Yeah, but...I can't believe it. I always thought that kind of stuff didn't get to you," Hunk remarked, bewilderment evident across his face.

Lance laughed a little to himself and shook his head again, "If only."

Hunk stared at him for a moment before giving Lance a disbelieving look and before he returned to walking.

"I was so weak back then," Hunk resumed his original train of thought, "And now, at least I can hold my own in battle. Not that I'm that important though."

"What are you talking about?" Lance declared, his turn to be absolutely shocked.

"You always have our backs! We all rely on you!" Lance told him.

"Yeah, but I mean, I'm not as good a fighter as Keith or as smart as Pidge, and I can't do all that magic stuff that Allura can do," Hunk argued.

"That doesn't mean that you're not important!" Lance spluttered, "I mean, you have skills that no one else has, and you add vital components to the team, I mean you're a great engineer, and you're awesome with people, and if we hadn't had your cooking, we'd have all gone insane. We all have specialties, and we work together to use them. Isn't that the point of being a team?"

Hunk looked at the ground. "Yeah, I guess."

Lance smiled, but before he could say anything more, Hunk raised his head and met Lance's gaze.

"So you're saying that we're all as important as each other and that without one of us, we would be missing a key component."

"Yeah…" Lance acknowledged, suddenly uncertain of where Hunk was heading with this.

"So you admit that you're an important part of Voltron and that we all need you?" Hunk prodded.

Lance was so shocked at Hunk's apparent mood swing that he could only stammer, "Yes-I mean, no. Wait-"

"HA!" Hunk jabbed his finger at Lance's chest and practically glowed in triumph and self-satisfaction.

"Wait, was that whole thing a trap?" Lance demanded, indignation roiling through his insides.

"Well, maybe not all of it," Hunk didn't drop his taunting smile, but before Lance could do or say anything about it, a voice called his name from behind.

"Hey, Lance, I need to talk to you."

Cold dread hit Lance like a block of ice, and his head moved as if in slow motion to see who had spoken, despite knowing their exact identity.

"Veronica," he gulped, his hands limp at his sides.

After a beat of hesitancy between the three of them, Hunk sent Lance a smirk that looked even more smug than Keith's, which looked incredibly unsettling on Hunk's normally unassuming face, and said, "Well, I'll see you two later. I have to go do…..yoga with the Yellow Lion."

 _Yoga? Of all the excuses?_ Lance thought bitterly as Hunk rushed off faster than if he had heard there were cookies burning.

"Thanks for helping me win my bet, Lance!" Hunk called over his shoulder, still thriving off of his moment of victory.

Lance felt a spark of irritation at that, and he couldn't help but wonder who had set Hunk up to pull that trick. Probably Pidge.

Lance watched Hunk go with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty, and he waited a moment before finally centering his attention on his sister.

"What is it that you want to talk about?" Already, his voice sounded weak.

Though his eyes were focused on the space just next to her left ear, he still observed her eyes flash and, when she spoke, the accusation in her voice was unmistakable.

"Why have you been avoiding us?"


	22. Confrontation

Veronica stood before Lance with a range of emotions tearing at her heart. The one she could identify the best, which also happened to be the most predominant, was confusion. She didn't understand her brother's actions on any level. Not just the way he acted around their family and her, but the obvious hesitancy in his voice, his posture, or even the way he talked in general. When he'd disappeared, her whole family had been an emotional wreck. And while Veronica held a stronger control over her emotions than any other member of her family, the devastation that filled her soul at the prospect of her little brother's death threatened to consume her. She refused to believe he was gone, and instead of moping around in her room for weeks on end, like her sister, she decided to find the truth herself. She joined the Garrison, against her parents' urgings, and resolved to uncover any truth about his unseemly "death". Of course, the Garrison had locked away any information about her brother behind an unbreachable "classified" label, of which she had no resources to defy. But she rejected the idea of quitting in her search for her brother, or even leaving the Garrison. It wasn't until just before the Galra arrived and ravaged her home that she learned the truth. And she hadn't even been looking for it at the time. She'd been curled up with her family, watching their favorite show, when the announcement shook their world. She remembered sitting among her shocked into silence family as they heard the news about the Galra's plan to invade, and the gasp that drew collectively from each of their lungs as they saw Lance on screen, his eyes so vulnerable and apologetic, his smile bittersweet. After that, she demanded as much information on the entire situation as possible, and her whole family had seemed to have life breathed back into them. Her mother started to sing again, her father stopped burying himself in his work, and her siblings bounced with vigor and energy. Leave it to Lance to make her family the happiest they had been in years in the face of an alien invasion. So, after seeing their pain, and how much Lance had seemed to miss them, she couldn't understand how he could ignore them. How he disregarded them like Christmas toys, unwanted after their initial appeal. The second feeling that she could somewhat grasp was anger. How _dare_ he treat them like only he was the one impacted by his absence? As if his own trials had brought none to his family? The fury that pressed against her eyes built with each slight he paid them, until it almost exploded when she watched him barely mutter a word to their mother when she'd tried to catch Lance's attention. Their mother had toiled for hours in order to give him a new sweater, but he hadn't seen her reach out to give it to him, and completely missed the crushed look that appeared in her eyes. That event had led Veronica to finally confront Lance, and was why, as she stood before him, her head high and posture impeccable, she did not feel an inch of remorse at the way he squirmed under her intense gaze. Other emotions swirled through her stomach like ingredients in a potion, like sorrow and frustration, but she didn't know how to properly address those, so she suppressed them and hoped they'd vanish after this encounter.

"Why have you been avoiding us?" She repeated firmly, tone void of sympathy and brimming with resentment.

"I…"

Did he not even have a good reason? Did he think that he didn't need them, or that because he was now a hero who had saved dozens of worlds, he was above his family?

"Well?" Veronica pushed, crossing her arms.

Lance fidgeted with his sleeves, then his fingers began to move in a seemingly random manner, all the while keeping his eyes glued to the floor beneath him. Veronica noticed how his shoulders slumped uncharacteristically a small part of her felt surprised. When he was younger, Lance would never stop prattling off about different ways to attract the attention of women, and he would often emphasize how the air of confidence was imperative. Impeccable posture was a part of this look, and he always held his head like he was not only proud of everything he'd ever done, but of who he was. Now, he looked like he barely had enough confidence to get out of bed.

"Veronica…" He faded off, and she couldn't stand how measly he looked.

"Stand up straight for goodness sakes. I thought you were the one who used to harp on that," Veronica snapped, enough aggression in her voice to startle him into straightening his back.

"Are you going to tell me, or will I have to be the one to tell mom that her son doesn't pay attention to her anymore because he's too stuck up," she remarked harsly. Perhaps a bit too harshly, a part of her admonished, but the statement finally brought his eyes to meet hers.

"Why in the world would you say that?" Lance demanded, perplexion and anger tinting his tone.

"Oh, so you can form full sentences after all," Veronica noted bitterly.

"Answer the question, Veronica," Lance replied, the coldness in his voice contrasting the hot fire that raged within her.

"Answer my question first, _Lance,_ " Veronica held her ground.

"I don't feel obligated to answer your question right now," Lance growled.

"Since when have you started using such fancy language?" Veronica mocked, "Is it from your posh girlfriend, who, I've noticed, you seem to be fine paying attention to."

"Girlfriend?" The anger in Lance's features and voice completely disappeared as he cocked his head at Veronica.

"Who are you talking about?"

There was no emotion in his voice whatsoever, at least, not the kind that appears when one tries to deny romantic feelings or a relationship. It seemed as if Lance truly had no idea what Veronica was talking about, and that fact threw Veronica off as well.

"You mean you and the Princess…?" Veronica mirrored Lance's befuddled expression.

"You think me and Allura?" Lance pointed to himself. "Are you kidding? I don't think of her like that anymore."

"So you used to!" Veronica grabbed onto that information like a club that she was poised to beat him with.

"At one time I thought I did," Lance admitted, rubbing his forehead, "But I honestly don't feel anything for her."

"Well…" Veronica didn't know what to do for a moment, before she recalled the entire purpose of this conversation, and snapped back into aggressive mode.

"That doesn't matter. Tell me what purpose you could possibly have for avoiding us!"

"We've been busy trying to plan how to beat the Galra, don't you remember?" Lance asked snidely.

"Oh, don't use that as an excuse," she placed her hands on her hips, "I've been doing just as much as you and I've had plenty of time to talk to my family."

"No, you haven't," Lance disagreed, further stoking the flames within her, which were steadily growing into an inferno.

"Is that because you're one of the 'famed Paladins of Voltron'," she glared.

"Yes, it is," Lance confirmed, "I have to do things that you're not required to do."

"Well, it goes both ways, smart one," Veronica hissed.

Lance looked as if he were about to say something angry, but instead, without warning, his entire demeanor changed, and his eyes told her a story of remorse and agony. Caught off guard by the rapid mood shift, Veronica could only gape. For some reason, the scars on his temple seemed more defined than before, and their untold history sent chills down her spine.

"You're right," he sighed, leaning his back against the nearest wall.

"I have been avoiding you all."

Well, that wasn't a reason, but at least she'd gotten a confession.

"Why?" She wondered, tone softer than earlier.

He regarded her with an expression that she couldn't quite name, then blinked his eyes slowly and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, _might as well get it over with_.

"It's hard to explain."

"Can you try?" Veronica urged as gently as possible through gritted teeth.

Closing his eyes and rubbing his hands over his face, he nodded.

"I don't want to lie to any of you," Lance told her, which was not the reason she was expecting.

"Lie? About what?"

"How I got all my scars, what we did in space, what happened to me, why I can't sleep at night, why I can't really taste anything anymore. Everything," Lance recanted as if he were holding his breath.

"Why? What happened?" Veronica inquired, curiosity exploding in her mind.

He raised an eyebrow as if he were telling someone, _I told you so,_ though no one was in his line of sight.

"It's a long story," he supplied.

"I have time," Veronica couldn't believe that she'd have to fight him every step of the way.

"It's not one that I'd like to tell," Lance told her.

"Well, then, you won't have to. I'll ask Keith," Veronica threatened.

"You really think he'll tell you?" Lance asked judgmentally.

"If he won't tell me, I'll ask Pidge, or Hunk. They seem like they'd tell me," Veronica crossed her arms again, amazed but not surprised at his stubbornness.

Lance considered her threat for a moment before meeting her eyes.

"Alright, I'll tell you what I can, but we might want to do it somewhere else," he proposed.

"If we go somewhere else that gives you a chance to escape or someone else to find something for you to do. I don't think so," Veronica persisted.

"Ok, then," Lance breathed deeply, as if gathering every ounce of energy in his body.

"I was captured and tortured for a month and a half and I killed some people and, oh, yeah, I died," he blurted so rapidly that Veronica hardly caught everything that he said.

"You...what?!" Veronica's anger rose to a whole other level, but this time it was not aimed at Lance, it was targeted at this whole situation in general.

"I thought you said you didn't want to lie!" Veronica hissed, about to slap her brother.

"I didn't lie!" Lance insisted, moving away from her, "All of that happened!"

"You died?!" She was so bewildered that she practically screamed the words. "You were captured, tortured, and killed?"

"Yes, quiet down. I died before the whole capture thing," he tried to clarify.

"Then...what? How'd you die?"

"I died knocking Allura's Lion out of the way from a massive electricity strike," Lance explained.

"And how are you here right now?" Veronica spluttered in disbelief. "Did the grim reaper not want you?"

"No, Allura kind of resurrected me…," Lance paused, realizing just how absurd the whole event sounded.

Veronica, who had thought she could prepare for anything and had a comeback for any sort of sentence thrown her way, was at a complete loss for words.

"She...resurrected you?" Veronica repeated.

"That does sound really weird phrased like that," Lance admitted.

Veronica's head was spinning.

"Hold on a second," Veronica pulled her glasses off her face, cleaned them, and pushed them to the bridge of nose.

"What are you doing?" Lance wondered as she squinted.

"I'm trying to decide if you look insane, because you certainly sound like it."

"Veronica," Lance grabbed her hands, his voice dead serious as he forced her to look into his eyes.

"I am not lying to you. Every word I said, every event that told you, all of those happened. If you need proof, here are the scars."

Frozen, her throat clogged and eyes wide, Veronica watched in horrified fascination as Lance lifted the hem of shirt and revealed the scars that covered his torso. Some scars glared scarlet like blisters, making her think of hot and uncontrollable rage, while the others that marred his skin were the color of bones and radiated terror and suffering. They physically disfigured his chest, pinching places where soft tissue should be. Veronica could count each of Lance's ribs, several of them bulging from his skin as if they had been broken and not set correctly. Burn marks trailed over some of the scars, adding layers to the mural etched into his skin that told a wicked story.

Tears rushed to her eyes as she brought a hand to her mouth, trying to stop herself from either gasping or vomiting. Numb and shocked, she couldn't speak, couldn't move. The sight before her seared into her brain. Veronica couldn't picture the horrors that had been inflicted upon Lance, nor could she truly grasp how damaged he had been.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you," He let his shirt drop back into place and looked away, jaw clenched and eyes closed.

As if an icy wave had just slammed into her, Veronica felt all feeling and movement return to her, and her first instincts were to reach for her brother.

"Lance," she said tenderly, delicately placing her hand on his face.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, blue irises shimmering with unfallen tears.

"It's okay. I'm glad you told me," Veronica reassured, acknowledging that Lance had struggled through more than enough pain for a lifetime.

He smiled wistfully at her and stepped back.

"I'm sorry, Veronica, I hope I answered your question," he said mechanically.

Stunned, Veronica watched him turn stiffly away from her. As his back retreated, she couldn't rid the thought of his scars from her mind, nor could she stop herself from wondering what kind of scars scattered across the other parts of his body, and what stories they told. When he disappeared from her vision, leaving her to absorb his revelations alone, her knees collapsed from under her as she finally grasped everything he'd said.

 **A/N:**

 **Hey everyone! Sorry that's its taken me a while to update, I've kind of been procrastinating. So, so far, I've been following canon events pretty closely, but that ends at the end of season 7. Nothing in season 8 will be included in this story, especially not Allura and Lance. At the moment, Lance has plenty of other problems to deal with before being in a romantic relationship. Plus, in this story, he's made it clear that he doesn't have any feelings for her. I'm sorry if you ship Allurance, but no ships will be included in this story. Also, what happens to Lance at the end of Season 8 is not in this Lance's future.**

 **Thank you for reading! You are all so amazing!**


	23. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**A/N:**

 **There won't be too many more chapters after this, I'm planning on just a couple more, roughly just two or three.**

 **Thank you for reading, it means the world to me.**

* * *

 _Move. Come on, just one step forward._

Lance tried to push himself toward the door. Or more accurately, to what lay behind it. Cold metal, impassable threshold, and seemingly looming over his head, this door in particular struck him with more terror than any of the other identical doors in the garrison compound. Vision tunneling, legs weak but feet firmly planted, and hands shaking, Lance found he could barely remain upright, forget moving forward. Clenching and unclenching his hands like some mechanical mannequin, Lance tried to focus his erratic breathing and calm his nerves.

 _1, 2, 3, 4…_

As his brain counted, he centered his entire attention on the mounting digits and their calming rhythm, the beat gradually slowing his panicked heart rate. Since when had approaching a _door_ become so difficult? When had he become so pathetic? Swallowing, a shot of disgust seared through his bloodstream, and he stopped counting. He could do this. He didn't just travel light years across star systems and nebulas, planets and asteroid fields, encountering war and captivity as he went, just to collapse or walk away from his family's door. Punching his thigh with enough force to jolt him from his dazed state, Lance savored the pain the sparked from the impact, and allowed it to restart his senses.

 _Now, move._

Lance pushed his right foot forward. Then his left. Another step. And another step. Meditating on his feet and nothing else, he made it to the intimidating door that, in a way, was his last defense. Maybe that was why he didn't want to walk through it. Or maybe, he wanted it to chase him away.

" _I couldn't talk to them because I couldn't get past the door."_

Yeah, Veronica would _love_ to hear that excuse.

His arm suddenly fashioned of lead, Lance exerted more energy than ever should have been necessary in order to raise his hand to knock. Before his skin could even touch the harsh metal of the door, however, Lance hesitated.

 _What if they don't want me?_

It was ridiculous, he knew. His family loved and supported him, their care for him was obvious. But Lance still found himself doubting. Perhaps he wasn't doubting them-perhaps, he was doubting himself. The proposition sounded logical, but it didn't help his current situation much. Philosophizing and hypothesizing only carried so far, only held so much weight, and too often, Lance chose to ignore any revelations they unearthed. He knew the truth, it stared him in the face. No, better yet, it danced in front of him painted neon pink, blowing air horns and covered from head to toe in flashing lights. Yet, he still refused, or didn't want, to acknowledge it. And he didn't understand why. Doubts and insecurities tugged at his clothes like phantom hands, trying to pull him back into the shadows, or maybe to keep him there. His resolve the wax of a long burning candle mostly melted and without shape, Lance found his body lurching backward, allowing the hands to jerk him backward a foot. For a moment, Lance considered giving in to their fervent pulling, their persistent presence. But the image of Veronica's furious features burned in his mind like a slave's brand, and Lance was pushing himself forward again. She was the reason he was here. He couldn't stand to think of their encounter, the overwhelming suffocating sensation he'd endured throughout their entire conversation, the fury that had seized both of them for a horrible moment, and the way she'd looked when he'd shown her his scars. Face blotchy from lingering anger, mouth parted, a gasp perched on her lips, and deep blue eyes brimming with tears of pity and reflecting not only every emotion that grabbed at her heart, but his face and the misery that twisted his features.

Haunting the back of his eyelids, his dreams, and his thoughts, that face tormented and drove him further from his sister. For a while, he'd feared that he might see that in his mother's face, and that in itself prevented him visiting her. But, time was short, and the Garrison's plans for ridding the Earth of the Galra were almost complete, and the mission was soon to be set in motion. If Lance died, without a final word to his mother, he couldn't imagine her pain. He needed to ensure that she had some sort of goodbye, one last memory of her broken son to cling onto on overcast days and starless nights. That was why, when Lance's mind conjured Veronica's features once more, he practically shoved himself against the very door that had paralyzed him. Knocking before he could think about three hundred more arguments to walk away, Lance steeled himself for whatever would happen next.

"Who is it?" His father's voice called from the other side, sending a rush of tingles across Lance's skin.

"It's me, uh, Lance," Lance rubbed the nape of his neck awkwardly.

"Lance!" His mother cried, and the door before him opened.

Before Lance had a second to react, his mother had flung herself unceremoniously into his arms, causing Lance to stumble back in surprise.

"Hey, Mom," he couldn't help the smile that emerged from the dark depths within him, but when she began to practically crush his ribs, the smile slipped away.

"Easy there," he wheezed, the cold touch of the ghost of his old injuries seizing his frame for a moment.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She leapt back, eyes wide.

"It's alright," he waved dismissively, using every ounce of his self-control in order to avoid clutching his sides.

She regarded him for a moment in wonder, before exclaiming, "Please, come in! It's not very tidy, but you can sit down."

She turned and rushed back into their living space, and Lance used that moment to catch his breath and unleash the wince that he'd been fighting. Then, he hurried after her before the door closed again. Crossing into the room should have held some emotion significance to him after his whole internal struggle in the hall, but Lance's mind became distracted by the scene before him. Their room was an old dorm room designed to house four students, but with such little resources, the Garrison had bestowed it to a family of eight. When Lance had first arrived, he hadn't thought of where he would be staying, since many other troubles had vied for his attention, but some small part of him had wondered if they would house him with the other Paladins or his family. Of course, he'd been staying with the Paladins, and now he knew why. While the family possessed very few material objects, there still was hardly any free space in the room at all. The four single beds had been shoved together to form two double beds, a table sat near door, and clothes were sprawled in piles across the floor. From the look of things, Lance's mother had been in the middle of folding the clothes and stacking them, but he must have interrupted before she'd gotten very far. A couple of toys, several dishes, yarn and knitting needles, and a plethora of random objects cluttered the table's surface and trailed to the floor, and somehow, though the table was obviously not designed to dine eight people, eight chairs crowded around it nonetheless. And, the room itself was barely bigger than the cockpit in the Red Lion.

"Lance!" Lance's father gave him a sunshine smile and wrapped his arms around Lance with a far greater gentleness than his mother.

"We're so glad you're here," he told Lance as he released him.

"Well, I had to come see you at some point, didn't I?" Lance tried at a playful, carefree attitude, but he knew it would fall flat sooner rather than later.

"Come sit down!" His mother beckoned, fussing with one of the chairs in order to pry it from where it had become stuck between two others.

When she finally yanked it out, Lance let himself chuckle, and sat as his father took a chair at the head of the table.

"I wish I'd known you were coming!" His mother proclaimed, "I'd've made you some of those garlic knots that you love."

Lance assured her that he didn't mind, and secretly, he didn't think he could stomach any food at the moment.

"Well, would you like any water?" She wondered, and Lance knew to refuse would be a deep insult.

"Of course," he nodded.

"I'd like some too," his father added, which elicited an eye roll from his mother.

"I didn't ask you," She retorted teasingly.

"But, _mi amor,_ you'll get me some anyway?" He asked snidely.

Although Lance's mother released a long huff, he knew that she was fighting a smile. From his childhood, he remembered how much his parents adored each other, and that his mother loved it when his father called her that.

Lance's father grinned and winked at Lance when she turned away, exiting the room in order to grab water from the cafeteria just down the hall.

Glancing around, Lance wondered why everyone else wasn't there, but secretly thanked Heaven that they weren't. He wasn't ready for the horde just yet.

"We've missed you," his father admitted, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table.

The imagine of his father propped against a table, features crafted into a kind expression, instantly transported him to a different time in his life, and suddenly, Lance felt eight years old, staring at his Dad as they talked about anything and everything.

"Sorry," Lance rubbed his neck again, and he absentmindedly wondered if he'd chafe all the skin away.

"No need to apologize!" His father waved his hands frantically, "We understand just how important everything you're doing is."

Lance gulped.

"Tell me, Lance," Lance's father's voice dropped and he narrowed his eyes, igniting bursts of anxiety in Lance's gut.

"Do you think we have a chance at beating the Galra?"

Lance almost felt giddy with relief.

"There's definitely a chance," he acknowledged.

 _A small chance,_ the back of his mind whispered, but Lance chose not to speak the thought out loud.

"What do you think will happen to the Earth?" His father wondered, eyes soft.

"Who knows? This whole experience is so foreign to humans, so the possibilities are endless, but I believe that we'll end up rebuilding with tech from all sorts of species, and the world will be completely different then how it was before."

"What do you think Voltron will do?" His father inquired, and Lance couldn't stop the paranoia that flooded his chest.

Why was his father asking these sort of questions? Wouldn't he want to know about Lance? Or ask about all of his space adventures?

"Why do you ask?" Lance leaned back in his chair, maintaining the appearance of ease while all of his nerves burst like fireworks beneath the surface.

"Oh, I've just been thinking about it a lot recently. All of this is speculation, of course, if we manage to overthrow the Galra."

Lance grunted, and his hands, out of sight beneath the table, began to trace the intro to a punk rock anthem.

"The truth is, Lance," His father straightened and cast a glance to the door. "We've all missed you, and it would crush your mother if you left so quickly."

 _Ah._ Lance thought. _That's what this is about._

"I'm sure we'll aid in Earth's rebuilding," he reassured his father, but more questions began to swirl in his head. For so long, all Lance had thought about was reaching Earth, seeing his family. He'd never considered what would come after. What would he do? Could he really continue as a Paladin of Voltron, fighting battle after battle, never stopping, stuck in a loop?

Would he go insane? And yet, no matter how desperately he'd yearned for Earth, he didn't know if he could remain on the same planet for long. Lance sat, shocked, as the revelation blew his mind. Where was home for him? What would he do? Where could he go? Would he stay with his family? He knew that was what a proper son should do, but was he really a proper son? He couldn't even look directly at his father for too long.

Lance was so blown away that he didn't notice that his mother had returned until she placed a glass of water before him and flicked his nose lovingly. Moving stiffly, he downed the entire glass in one swallow, his mouth suddenly parched.

"What did you say to him?" His mother declared, "He looks as if a ghost just waltzed into the room!"

"I was just-"

"I'm fine, Mom," Lance managed, not wanting the subject to re-enter their conversation, "Really."

Skepticism weighed on her features, but after a moment of consideration, she shrugged and said, "If you say so."

Relieved that she'd let it go, Lance placed his empty glass on the table and stared at the rim like the answer to all of his questions was hidden there.

"Oh!" His mother exclaimed, her mind already flitting to something else.

"I made this for you!" She smiled brightly, grabbing a folded sweater and handing it to him.

"You did?" Lance asked, eyes widening in surprise as he gingerly accepted her gift.

The material was softer than any article of clothing he'd worn in years, and he rubbed it between his fingers in awe. Unfolding it gently, he examined the sweater with a small smile, then turned back to her.

"Thank you," he told her with sincerity.

"Oh, it was nothing," she waved her hand dismissively, but a hue of soft pink spread across her cheeks, and he could tell she was pleased.

"Be careful, if you tell her you like this one, she'll make you ten more," his father jibed, earning himself a glare from his mother.

Lance forced a smile to wobble on his lips.

"Why did you come to see us?" His mother questioned as she eased herself into the chair across from him. "Did you need to ask us something?"

A stab of sadness jabbed Lance's heart when he realized that they thought he wasn't there just for them.

"I just, well, I wanted to talk to you, seeing as how we haven't been able to for so long. And we might not have another chance for a while," Lance replied, eyes focused on the threads of his sweater.

"Why is that?" His mother scrunched her eyebrows together in confusion, leading Lance into a sigh.

"We'll be dealing with the Galra soon," Lance conveyed.

"Really? Well, they don't know what's coming for them," She remarked proudly, practically beaming at Lance.

He didn't deserve her pride nor her confidence, and he averted his gaze, offering a timid smile in an effort to look grateful.

"What's wrong?" She reached across the table and clasped his hands, her tone soft and reassuring, exactly the way he remembered from all those times he scraped his knee or had a nightmare.

Except, now, his troubles could not be solved by a kiss to the forehead, a few soothing words, and an embrace.

"Just tired," Lance fell back on his age old excuse. The one everyone believed.

"Ok, what else?" She wondered, as if his skin was a clear window in which she used to see all his secrets.

"Eh, nerves."

"Nerves?" She raised an eyebrow.

Why was she so good at reading him?

"Yeah, I mean, after so long everyone you're around can get on your nerves, you know?" Lance tried to salvage his mistake, but she didn't indulge him.

"People don't get on your nerves," she objected. "You've always been so amiable."

"You sure about that?" Lance arched both his eyebrows, recalling all of the times he'd been infuriated with Keith.

"Well, everyone gets annoyed with someone else every now and then, but that's not what's bothering you," his mother announced sagely.

"Leave the boy alone, _Cariño_ ," His father interjected, coming to Lance's rescue.

"If he doesn't wish to talk about it, don't make him."

"Fine," she crossed her arms, not angry, just troubled.

"I suppose I shouldn't call you a boy anymore either," His father turned to Lance, startling him.

"It's been five years after all. You're twenty-two now, aren't you?"

The number stole Lance's breath.

Twenty-two.

"Well, in Earth years, yes," he clarified. "But I haven't necessarily lived twenty-two years. In all honesty, I have no idea how old I am."  
"Mmm," his father contemplated, eyes misting with thought.

"Your eyes tell me you're much older," his mother commented faintly.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"Your eyes look as if they have seen a lifetime's worth of sorrow," she sounded like a fortune-teller at a carnival, but Lance was shocked by the gravity in her tone.

"They do," his father agreed, and Lance glanced between the two of them, frost spreading across his body.

"I-"

"It's okay, you don't have to tell us," his mother squeezed his hand, "But I can see the pain in your eyes. And the shadows under them."

"The scars are also a big clue," his father noted, his odd sense of humor strangely welcome at the moment.

Lance traced the scars tentatively, then shook his head.

"It's been a long journey for me," he finally conceded.

"I can tell," his mother reached up and stroked his arm.

"I'm sorry," the words pulled themselves from his mouth, as if they'd been sitting there all this time, waiting to rush out.

"For what?" His father wondered.

"Everything. Everything I can't explain," Lance fought the onslaught of tears that struggled to free themselves from his body with great difficulty, and he knew he couldn't contain them for long.

"Thank you," he stood abruptly, facing both of his parents, "For the sweater, and the talk."

"Are you sure you want to go?" His mother asked, sounding like she missed him already.

"I do, there's going to be a meeting soon, and I can't be late," he told them distantly.

His mother nodded, on the verge of tears herself. After he hugged them both and exchanged an emotional "I love you", he practically launched himself from their room, not waiting to hear the door close behind him before he darted down the hall, tears already leaking from the cracks in the mask he'd built for himself.


	24. Visiting Death Yet Again

**A/N:**

 **Hi! Sorry that I haven't updated in a while! I used a scene from episode 10 of season 7, though I made a couple adjustments to the scene, just so it flows better with this story. I don't know why, but this chapter was incredibly hard to write and I sat for roughly forty minutes stressing over how I was going to start it and how I wanted to write it. Thankfully, I managed to pull it together, and I hope you like it!**

 **Be on the lookout for the next chapter, because it will be the last one.**

 **Thank you to everyone who reads my story and enjoys it! You have no idea how much it means to me. Every new review, follower, and favorite encourages me, and I cannot express how grateful I am for all of you.**

 **I hope you have a good day!**

* * *

Lance wasn't sure if the Red Lion was ignoring him blatantly or if he was just completely incapable of reaching her. Ever since he and Veronica had left the highly stressed Garrison, Lance's entire focus had centered around calling the Red Lion to him. However, Lance's brain could only focus on the awful doubts and worries bouncing around his skull like firecrackers. Scrunching his eyes as if he could close them anymore than they already were, Lance grimaced and tried to push the nagging, perpetual thoughts from his mind. Unfortunately, that seemed to amplify them.

 _What if she never answers?_

 _What if she doesn't come?_

 _What if I fail the team?_

 _Everyone will die if she doesn't respond. And it will be my fault._

Sweat dripped from his forehead and trickled down his neck, the sensation another distraction to his mind. Suddenly, as if the feeling of cold sweat rolling down his back triggered all of his senses, Lance became hyper aware of everything around him. The air smelled of disinfectant and anxiety mixed with a faint artificial lemon scent that only an air freshener could produce. Equipment rattled around him, and Lance felt every slight jounce and jostle as his transportation navigated the dry terrain. A rock under a wheel or a slight course correction felt like a major adjustment at an extreme velocity. Contradicting his cracked and moistureless lips, Lance's mouth filled with a metallic, warm taste, not far from the familiar taste of blood. And the noise. The noise was the worst of it. The thrum of the engine. The rumble of the terrain against the wheels. Nervous, heavy breathing that rasped against his ears like sandpaper.

And that incessant tapping. Over and over again, it never relented, stubbornly repeating its insanity inducing rhythm.

 _Tap. Tap. Tap._

Polluting Lance's mind like static, the tapping drilled its pounding cadence into every inch of his cerebrum, until he couldn't even remember if he was breathing.

 _Tap. Tap. Tap._

For the moment, Lance gave up all pretense of trying to contact the Red Lion, and he shot open his eyes.

"Would you stop that, Veronica?!" Lance snapped in aggravation, startling his sister.

Her index and middle fingers paused, poised in the air above the steering wheel. Slowly and silently, she lowered her fingers and spared Lance a brief glance.

"What's wrong? Did you contact the Red Lion?" She wondered, eyes returning to the route before her.

"Nothing's wrong," Lance replied defensively, though he couldn't stop himself from muttering quietly, "Yet."

"Yet?! What does that mean?" She demanded, her eyebrows scrunching together.

"Nothing's wrong," Lance repeated, for his own sake more than Veronica's.

"Hmm," she grunted skeptically, but Lance was already trying to recenter his focus.

If he could reach the Red Lion, everything would be fine. All he had to do was call her to him. He'd done that hundreds of times before, right? Well, now that he thought about it…no, he hadn't done it very much at all. But, he couldn't let his doubts cloud his mind. Not now. _Especially_ not now.

 _Come on Red, answer me._

He waited, hoping he'd feel the link between them again, wishing that she'd just acknowledge him. But he felt as hollow as ever. Just like when the Blue Lion rejected him as her Paladin. The thought sent a flurry of panic through his mind, and his fear spiked to another level. If the Red Lion chose now to refuse Lance, he would have failed both his team and his home planet. Lance couldn't let that happen, but how could he do anything about it? If the Red Lion chose to ignore him, then there was nothing he could do. Helplessness had overwhelmed him when the Blue Lion severed their bond, and he'd been forced to listen to his friends struggle without him. During that moment, he feared that he'd never be able to help them, and he'd been rejected as a Paladin completely. The chilling despair that Lance experienced then still haunted his psyche, even though he'd soon discovered that the Red Lion had accepted him. Reliving that whole scenario would destroy Lance, and this time, he knew there was no other Lion that would choose him as its Paladin. Terrified by that prospect, Lance desperately pleaded to the Red Lion to answer him, to help him. And yet, the only response he received was cold, condemning silence. Though disheartened, Lance gritted his teeth and tried again, determined not to let everyone down so easily. However, before Lance could transmit another plea, Veronica yelped and Lance's body jerked violently as the rover swerved dangerously. Opening his eyes in surprise, Lance glanced around frantically, only to discover they were under fire by a Galra ship. Dust exploded around them as Veronica maneuvered the rover as best she could, the laser blasts from the ship barely missing them.

"Lance, where are you? Can you hear me?" Shiro's voice crackled over Lance's comms, but before he could reply, Lance's peripheral vision warned him of a shift in the Galra ship's position.

"Veronica, look out!" He screamed, but it was too late.

Veronica didn't have enough time to react, and a blast hit the back of the rover and vaulted them forward, sending them into a roll. As Lance felt himself vaulting through the air, time seemed to freeze. Weightless, he hung suspended in the air, like a pin waiting to drop. For a moment, nothing could touch him, nothing could hurt him. Then, all too soon, he was crashing into the windshield, against the door, and onto the seat that just a minute ago he'd sat obsessing about his sister tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. He wondered dimly if this was how he'd die, crushed by a piece of technology after it spun him around like it was a sick carnival ride inspired by the clothes tossed around in a dryer. This thought was largely overshadowed by the pain that erupted in his back after it slammed into something sharp. Before he could even properly dwell on that though, his head made contact with a hard object at a dangerous speed, pitching Lance's sight into black.

* * *

Lance didn't know which revived him first, the voices screeching in his head or the pain screaming through the rest of his body. Either way, the two factors dragged him from the blissful blanket of darkness that had laid like snow over his consciousness. Dazed, he forced his eyes to open, and blearily observed his surroundings. The sun momentarily blinded him as he pushed himself wearily to his feet, but after they adjusted, the first thing he noticed was the dust. It was everywhere. The second thing he noticed was the scattered metal pieces that littered the ground around him, as if there'd been a car wreck. Coming more alert, Lance looked around more carefully, wondering what had happened and hoping that whoever had been involved was uninjured. Then he realized that it was, in fact, he who was in the wreck. And that the voices in his head were not signs of schizophrenia, but his friends yelling at him. And that meant….

"Veronica?! Veronica!" He called, eyes dashing wildly for his sister.

After a several second span of desperate panic, he saw her about three hundred feet from him, lying exposed and possibly injured.

 _Or dead._

Viciously shoving the thought from his mind, Lance launched himself toward his sister, praying to anyone who could hear that she was still breathing.

"Veronica!" He yelled, covering the distance with a speed that he hadn't thought possible.

Sliding onto his knees when he reached her, he instantly scrambled to find her pulse, and only relaxed slightly when he felt it, steady and strong beneath his fingertips. At his touch, Veronica opened her eyes slowly, and he offered her a smile, but his battle senses were going haywire, telling him that they wouldn't be safe for long. Excessively conscious of the fact that they were easy targets for any Galra strolling by, Lance raised his head to find shelter, yet he was too late. A barrage of blaster shots rained down on them from several Galra soldiers nearby. Adrenaline pumping through his limbs, Lance activated his shield and propped it into the ground before him, positioning himself in order to protect Veronica as best he could. Shifting his bayard into a blaster, he dropped the soldiers and their drones with several rapid blasts. Just as he finished the last of them off, however, the ship returned, zeroing in on Lance's location.

 _Red, I need you! Right now!_

The ship fired two blasts that evoked a thick cloud of dust but missed the two siblings. Blaster gripped firmly, Lance sprang forward and released a multitude of shots on the ship, but none of them left a mark, and the ship approached at an even faster rate. The grim reality hit Lance like a stone, and in that moment, he accepted it. How many other times had he been in this situation? Death was an old acquaintance by now, one whose door either never opened at his knock or slammed shut in his face. Maybe this time, he'd be invited to stay a while. Perhaps forever. The Galra ship was closer now, so close that it seemed impossibly huge, undefeatable even. Lance didn't want this for Veronica, but she'd known what she signed up for. Maybe they'd arrive at Death's house together, and someday, his family would forgive him for letting this happen. For leaving in the first place. Lance let his eyelids droop, accepting his end but not yet ready to witness it. He waited. When the final blow, the one that would send him from this life to the next, never came, he frowned and opened his eyes to see the Red Lion descending on the Galra ship with all the glory of a million victories. She crushed the ship beneath her dramatically, and another fog of dust formed around them from the impact.

After the dust settled, Lance glanced at Veronica, who had shifted into a crouched position, to make certain that she was alive.

"You okay?" He asked, voice hoarse.

"A little bruised, but nothing a couple weeks won't heal," she confirmed, offering him a relieved and grateful smile.

Reflecting her smile on his face, he turned to the Red Lion, who sat poised, as if waiting for something.

"Thank you so much," Lance felt the need to bow, though that only seemed to amuse the Lion, not to mention Veronica.

Apparently satisfied however, the Red Lion roared, a sound that sent vibrations through Lance's bones and hope into his heart. In that moment, the bond that he'd thought he'd lost, that he'd never regain, began to reappear between them. Lance could only stare at the Red Lion with gratitude sprawled across his face and, for some reason, the only thing he could think to say was a ridiculous line he'd probably used to flirt with someone in the past.

"Red, I think you're the love of my life."


	25. An Ocean Sunset

**A/N:**

 **Well, this is it. The last chapter. I know I've said this before, but thank you for supporting me throughout this entire story. It has meant the world.**

 **It's been a pleasure flying with you.**

* * *

A soft breeze, carrying the distinct scent of salt and the shore, beckoned him to the ocean. Rustling through his hair, it rushed over his skin like a refreshing wave and found a way to calm and excite him all at once. The gentle gust of wind tugged at his limbs and whispered his name like it was a forbidden secret, further enticing him. Entranced by the hypnotic sight of waves rising and receding on the sand, Lance stood, paralyzed, fifty feet away from the water. Blood orange rays exploded across the sky and over the ocean as the sun began its descent on the horizon, a promising start to a spectacular sunset, but Lance seemed to be the only witness to the approaching masterpiece. Once a tourist spot, Varadero beach, aside from him, appeared completely abandoned. Of course, the Galra had been overthrown just two months ago, and the inhabitants of the Earth had more pressing matters to attend to then visit the beach. But the lack of human life still felt chilling. Unused to the empty atmosphere, it appeared to Lance as if the whole beach were in mourning. Perhaps the destroyed hotels and cafés that sat, collapsing and shrouded in shadow, along the border of the beach produced the eerie aura that stretched across the beach like a veil of mist. Maybe it was the way that the waves themselves lapped against the shore, almost hesitant, and if one wanted to be poetic, with an air of sorrow. But deep down, Lance couldn't stop himself from wondering if he were only projecting his own disenchanted mood onto his surroundings.

Lance didn't hear Keith approach, nor did he really notice when the other Paladin stood beside him. Only when Keith spoke did the spell on Lance's thoughts dissolve, and he could fully acknowledge Keith's presence.

"What is this place?" Keith asked gently, his voice almost hushed.

"Veradero beach. I used to live about twenty minutes that way," Lance pointed to their right.

"Why are you here instead of there, where you used to live?" Keith inquired, tilting his head in the same direction that Lance had pointed.

"Why are _you_ here?" Lance wondered, brushing off Keith's question. "Are the others with you? Do we have a mission?"

"No. I was sent to make sure you don't blow anything up," Keith elaborated, earning a scowl from Lance.

"Well, I wasn't planning on it," Lance retorted, crossing his arms. "Isn't sending you a guarantee that that would happen, anyway?"

Keith rolled his eyes, "That happened _once_ , Lance. You, Pidge, and Hunk have blown up far more things than I ever have."

"Suuure, whatever helps you sleep at night," Lance raised his eyebrows sarcastically, but the light hearted banter felt like a preface to a much more grave conversation.

A comfortable silence elapsed between them, the only noise in Lance's ears the tantalizing sound of waves breaking against the sand. Conducting a war inside himself, Lance felt the sense of peace and overwhelming anxiety wrestle with each other for dominance. The impression of a sardonic smile twitched on Lance's lips, the thought of peace fighting with something incredibly ironic to him.

"You didn't answer my question," Keith noted dryly.

"You didn't answer mine either," Lance shot back, grasping at old childhood debate tactics.

"Really, Lance?" Keith shook his head, "I did answer your question."

"No, you didn't tell me why _you're_ here. Anyone could have come to spy on me and make sure nothing catastrophic happened, why you?" Lance prodded. He hadn't really intended to ask that question, and in all honesty, he didn't need to, but it was his only stalling tactic.

"Because you're my right hand man, and I figured I should be the one to follow," Keith replied, sincerity radiating from his voice.

Lance avoided making eye-contact with the boy beside him and nodded.

"So, why are you here and not at your home?" Keith repeated.

Lance adjusted his stance, leaning on one foot then the other and back again.

"Well," Lance clenched his jaw and never let his eyes stray from the sky, which now had bright pinks mixed with the orange. "No reason, really."

Lance could feel Keith's eyes on him, and he braced himself for the skepticism that was sure to come. Instead of calling him out, however, Keith lowered himself onto the sand silently, settling in to watch the sunset. Slightly wary, Lance slowly sat next to Keith, the feeling of sand sifting through his hands so familiar and nostalgic that a stab of pain shot through his heart.

"How often did you come here?" Keith asked, watching as the bright colors of the sky shifted once more.

"Not really, this was more of a tourist spot," Lance admitted, "Though at one time, I thought about applying to be a lifeguard here."

"Really?" Keith glanced at him, eyebrows arched.

"Yeah," Lance chuckled softly, "It seemed like the perfect job, getting paid to sit around at the beach and occasionally have to drag a drowning tourist out of knee deep water."

Keith shook his head with a laugh and leaned forward, propping an arm over his knees.

"You sure there wasn't another reason?" he joked, both of them knowing full well what the other unspoken motivation was.

"Yeah. Acquiring the discipline to sit in the exact same position for hours on end seemed really appealing," Lance deadpanned, earning a judgemental laugh from Keith.

"Yeah, right," he rolled his eyes.

Lance turned his attention back to the sky, grinning. The fading sunlight hit the waters at a perfect angle, transforming the entire ocean into molten gold, and the sight stole Lance's breath. Though he had seen nebulas of violet and indigo, galaxies swirling in blues and greens and shining with the light of thousands of stars, and planets of all forms of beauty, nothing would ever be more breathtaking to him than a Cuban sunset.

"Why didn't you?" Keith asked, slightly startling Lance.

"Didn't what?" Lance blinked in confusion.

"Why didn't you become a lifeguard?"

"Oh," Lance shrugged, "Because I wanted to be a pilot more. I knew that if I got a job here, I wouldn't have the time I needed to study and get my grades high enough to get into the Garrison."

"Huh," Keith grunted.

"Yeah," Lance savored the word, tone sentimental with nostalgia. "I remember when I told my mom that I wanted to be a pilot in the Garrison. She dismissed it as the pure daydreams of an energetic kid and thought I'd forget all about it the next day. But I didn't. And when I only got more and more serious about the whole thing, she grew progressively more worried. In hindsight, I don't think I realized just how scared she was."

"Did she not want you to leave?" Keith asked.

Lance leaned back onto the palms of his hands, "That was part of it. I also think she just didn't want to me to shoot off into space and never be heard from again."

Pausing, Lance gulped, heavy guilt weighing on his heart. While his family had marginally forgiven him, he still didn't think that he would ever truly forgive himself for letting them live through believing he was dead.

"Hey," Keith voiced, pulling Lance from his misery, "You came back."

"I did," Lance admitted, offering him a small smile.

The stars were now visible in the ever darkening sky, the pinks and oranges of before having faded to turquoise and light violets.

"I didn't want to go home because I didn't know how I'd take it. I used to dream about being back there, and now, I'm too afraid to actually visit," Lance blurted, surprising both himself and Keith.

"Why?"

The word was a loaded gun with the safety off, and Keith had pulled the trigger.

"I don't know," Lance whispered.

But he did know, didn't he? He just didn't want to admit it.

"You sure?"

As a cool breeze filtered through their hair and the palm trees behind them, Lance dared a look at Keith, whose eyes reflected the glow of the dying sun.

Keith met his gaze, head tilted in an unspoken challenge.

"It's stupid," Lance dismissed, then began to fiddle with a loose string on his light blue hoodie.

"If you say so," Keith shrugged, returning his eyes to the ocean.

Though the sun still had yet to disappear completely, the moon was slowly becoming the stronger source of light, a sign of night overcoming day.

"I guess...I know that if I go there, it'll mean moving on."

There. The words hung in the air, but at least they'd finally escaped his mind.

"And you don't want to move on? Wouldn't that be a good thing?" Keith asked.

"I guess. I just don't know if I'm ready to let go," Lance sighed, picking up a fistfull of sand and watching as it slowly sifted through his grasp.

"Of what?"

Lance paused. Closing his eyes, a rash of memories flashed through his mind in rapid succession, each one just a traumatic as the next. He saw himself, alone and shackled, left to rot in a cell. He felt the powerlessness he'd experienced as his body was beaten until it broke. Then there was the lightning, tearing through his body and burning his skin. Next, Xeris's charred face. And the visions. Afterwhich, the nightmares. They haunted him, were always one step behind him. They bullied his mind, shredded his heart, and tormented him endlessly. He hated them. But he was afraid to let them go.

"Everything," Lance admitted, running a hand through his hair.

"Hmm," Keith rested an elbow on one of his knees and used his hand to cradle his chin. "Are you talking about what happened while you were in captivity?"

"And everything that came after," Lance nodded, his skin suddenly raw.

Keith thought for a moment before answering.

"I think you've grown used to your demons, and your view of them has warped. You're afraid to let them go because you don't know who you'd be without them," he concluded, making Lance's heart panic at the truth of the statement.

"I…"

"It's okay to be afraid Lance. But you have to move on. Life without change is pointless."

Lance contemplated that for a moment, his hand drawing patterns in the sand.

"How'd you know?" Lance finally rasped, his voice sounding like he'd just gurgled gravel.

"You're not the only one with demons," Keith told him, and a chill fell upon Lance's bones.

He was right, they all had their trials, and Lance berated himself for forgetting it. Suddenly, Lance needed to move. He needed to think. Pushing himself up, he started toward the water, his mind consumed in thought.

Keith seemed to sense that Lance needed to be alone, to process and absorb, so when he stood, he didn't follow.

"Now that I know where you are, that should appease the others. They can send a search party if you're not back before tomorrow," Keith called, but Lance didn't respond.

"Lance?" Keith tried again, this time with enough steel in his voice to catch Lance's attention.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I'll see you then," Lance sent Keith a distracted smile before returning his gaze to the sand at his feet.

Lance didn't see the long, thoughtful look Keith sent him, nor did he see him leave. Lance only sensed when he was alone, the stars and the sea his remaining company. As Lance watched the ocean ripple with reflected starlight, making the space before him look like millions of liquid stars, he contemplated Keith's words. Maybe moving on would be better than standing still. Lance knew that he would still carry his memories, that the future still held sleepless nights and overcast days. Except, now, he'd stop letting them control him. His doubts would still whisper in his ear, but maybe he'd have the strength to ignore them. And if he didn't possess enough strength to fight by himself, he could always rely on his friends and family to lend him theirs. After all, they already had. Lance remembered Shiro, comforting him in a darkly veiled room, when night terrors threatened to sever his sanity. And Allura, her multi-colored eyes turning to kaleidoscopes with tears that swirled, unshed, for him. The memory of Pidge, fast asleep after listening to him play on his guitar for hours, brought a faint smile to his lips. He felt that smile grow wider when he remembered Hunk's attempts to trap Lance into feeling better about himself, and Coran's antics intended to coax him into laughter. With each memory, Veronica teasing him, his parents hugging him, Keith comforting him when he desperately needed it, Lance felt stronger. The sky, now a window into the expanse where he'd spent years of his life, and the ocean, a perfect mirror of that world, brought a sense of peace to his heart and mind at last. Lance didn't know what lay before him, nor the struggles that would test him, but he knew he could face it. Or, at least, he would try.

And that was enough.

With one last deep breath, Lance stepped into the waves, letting the troubles of the past wash away.


End file.
